A Person of Some Consequence
by shywr1ter
Summary: Victorian AU, set in Sequitur's amazing universe.  Those in Gibbs' employ are drawn into murder and intrigue behind royal walls. What is being asked of the Gentlemen - and Ladies - of Last Resort this time?  Team fic.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; historical persons are fictionalized in varying degrees. The Victorian NCIS universe and borrowed characters are from Sequitur's magnificent "Gentlemen of Last Resort," FFN story ID #6915570**_.

_A/N: About three months ago, Sequitur revealed a parallel universe in Victorian London, in which the "Gentlemen (and ladies) of Last Resort" provide assistance in those cases for which the local constabulary has (or offers) little help. Since then, Richefic has also joined in and recently finished her own story with the same characters. Sequitur has graciously agreed to let me have a whack at her world now, too! I have tried my best to follow the 'canon' both of these authors have established for this universe._

_I owe Sequitur many, many thanks for letting me play in her yard, for patiently responding about doing just that, and most of all, for creating this wonderful version of our favorite team! Thanks to Richefic for following along and adding to this amazing little world. And as always, big big thanks to the endlessly patient Mari83, who has suffered my fanfic squees of all kinds across __**six**__ countries now! Her comments and support always help calm those pre-posting jitters._

_I have huge shoes to fill with this story, so would really appreciate any and all comments and thoughts about it! _

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 1**

Timothy McGee had been resident in Gibbs' home now nearly as long as he had been resident in the poor Mr. Davies' home, that being six months, and hardly a day passed even now when he didn't remember the old man's kindness to him. The elderly gentleman had given him gifts beyond measure in the encouragement and, in the end, the free lodging, that he'd offered so generously to the naive midlands boy McGee had been only months ago. What was more, even in death, Mr. Davies had unwittingly provided him a new life and new purpose with the gentlemen McGee sought out to solve the riddle of his landlord's murder. On his more quiet nights, McGee liked to think that Mr. Davies would have been pleased with his efforts in discovering that the rogue Travington was to blame for his murder, and so he might have smiled down from heaven and helped Gibbs see a potential in McGee's inventions the way the nearsighted old gentleman had found beauty in them.

Such thoughts, in turn, always gave rise to a feeling of ambivalence in McGee, as he considered the months that had passed since the passing of Mr. Davies; he was as keenly aware of how much he had learned in the employ of Mr. Gibbs as he had left to discover, not least of which was the true story behind the little group Gibbs had pulled together about him for the purpose of finding answers others failed to find, solving puzzles others failed to solve, even rescuing those others could not – or _would not_ – rescue.

_Puzzles,_ McGee snorted to himself. _Why_ does _it seem that for every one thing one learns about the 'mad' Mr. Anthony, as some insist on calling him, one finds two questions more?_ The most recent misadventure was a troubling episode in which, once again, Anthony straggled home late at night, coat soiled and bloodied, bruise growing under an eye and knuckles scraped. Timothy had not seen him enter, working in his little shop down in Gibbs' cellar, but even at that distance, and even though their voices were lowered, Timothy could hear that Anthony's arrival had drawn out Gibbs, and something had bothered their employer enough that he took Anthony to task for it right away, right there in the entry hall.

In earlier months Timothy would not have made so bold as to insert himself into such a scene, but as he was reminded on a daily basis, in countless small ways, he was a part of this household now and, given Gibbs' never-ending concern for Anthony and his scrapes, and given all the lessons he had himself learned from Anthony, intended or no, McGee found himself bounding up the steps to see what now was afoot. Upon seeing the condition in which Anthony ended the evening, McGee's mouth made his presence known before his mind could engage, despite the intensity of the conversation he interrupted.

"Anthony! Whatever has happened to you now?" McGee came closer.

The man's expression darkened even more, if it were possible, and he growled, "if you are to be so familiar as to interrupt our conversation, McGee, I do wish you'd do it in a more timely manner, as I have neither the energy or the interest in repeating myself."

"Anthony," Gibbs voice was quiet yet stern, even insistent, as he ignored McGee's intrusion to press, "I will not tolerate your undertaking such errands alone – there is no need of it and the danger is far greater, for both you and for the victim of your quarry, when you attempt such things without assistance."

"Sir," Anthony tried, "it was not the plan that I go alone, or tonight; you yourself are aware of the details so carefully drawn just this morning. But I was not more than the second Act into this evening's fare when I was summoned outside, only to be told of a disturbing turn of events that made any further delay too dangerous for honest consideration. A diversion was needed immediately so that an escape could be effected before any more time passed. Had I even another hour I should have gotten word to you, but as it was, I did not have that luxury."

As Gibbs glared at the man for another long moment, McGee did all he could not to let fly with further unhelpful questions. But when Gibbs' intensity suddenly softened marginally and he sighed to began speaking again, it was not to seek the details McGee had hoped to hear. "Very well, Tony." Gibbs' voice had fallen into softer mien, just as his gaze had. "Are you injured beyond what we can see of you here?"

Anthony seemed to rally, sensing forgiveness in the air. "Nothing worth a worry, sir; your own chastising cuffs to the head hurt more," he grinned cheekily.

Which grin was not returned by Gibbs, but the answering sigh carried more affection than consternation. "And your diversion a success, I assume, else you would not have come home until it was so."

At Gibbs' words, Anthony's previous look of mischief faded, and his manner softened back into a more serious one. "For my part, yes, but I have not heard anything further regarding the rest of them. I am hopeful that I was able to give them enough time to do all that was needed to be done. You know as well as I, sir, that for some poor women no matter the risk they will stay long past the point of danger and even when offered rescue do not avail themselves of the chance."

Gibbs lifted his chin slightly to fix his second with a look of pride. "But you are nothing if not convincing when it comes to women, Anthony, and I suspect you may have found the words to help young Mrs. Brown over that impasse." He took another appraising look at Anthony, whose eyes now gained back most of the sparkle lost, gained, and lost again in mere moments as Timothy watched, and finally nodded, tipping his head toward the stairs. "Go on, then, clean yourself up and be honest if you need a visit by Dr. Mallard."

Anthony looked for all the world like a schoolboy who avoided the worst of the headmaster's ire, and he turned to the steps even as he replied, "of course I will, sir, but I can tell you that the marks you see were far less his blows or even my defenses, but from my efforts to restrain him for a long enough time to accomplish our goals without leaving much evidence that he'd been taken against his will." With those words, Anthony slowed, and from the steps turned back to face Gibbs, apologetically. "I am afraid he got rather a good look at my face."

Gibbs brow clouded momentarily but without much worry behind it; he then shrugged, "I suppose it's just as well then that it concerns a matter for which the authorities would have no part. They would have as easy a time refusing the complaint of such a man as they would that of his wife..."

The fractured information McGee was receiving had been nearly too much for him to bear before, but with this new tidbit he blurted, "Anthony, not another man's wife! Surely you would not..."

"_No,_ I would _not,_ McGee," Anthony's eyes darkened again as he turned square to face McGee and his otherwise lighthearted words took on a warning tone. "And you really _must_ improve your skulking skills or I will..."

The creak of the servants' entrance door in the back of the house brought an immediate silence to Anthony, and the men's knives into their hands, but the sound coming through the house was clearly not intended for stealth, and in a bare moment was recognized by each of them. Still unmoving, however, they had only another moment to wait before the pale face of their youngest and newest maid, Peggy Dawes, appeared in the doorway, looking wan and shaken.

"Oh ... s... sir, I'm sorry..." she began toward Gibbs upon seeing him there, but to Timothy's surprise she did not immediately withdraw, instead allowing her eyes flit around the entry hall where the men had gathered. "I saw the light and was afraid that ..." To Timothy's even greater surprise, he saw her relax when she made out Anthony's form on the darkened stairs. "...that Mr. Anthony had not arrived home yet."

"Indeed I did, Miss Dawes. And I am pleased to see that you have as well."

At her flustered appearance, Gibbs had quickly and subtly re-sheathed his blade, then stepped toward the trembling girl. Appraising her almost as carefully as he had Anthony, he asked, "are you well, Miss Dawes? Were you able to get your sister away?"

"Yes, sir; thank you, sir," she managed a little curtsy, "she's been taken in for the fortnight by ... oh, _sir..."_ she gasped, turning as Anthony came back down the few steps he'd climbed and approached her, no doubt stirred by the concern in Gibbs' voice, and in doing so came into the greater light of the hall. Clearly seeing the damage done, and also apparently knowing more about the reasons for it than McGee did, the young maid's eyes filled with tears. "Please say that you were not injured on our account..."

"It's nothing, Miss Dawes," Anthony swaggered broadly for the poor girl. "Haven't you heard it said that the wounds of the flesh are mere trifles, and it's the ones deep down that you cannot see that are the more grave? These mean only a few hours additional attention from the lovely ladies at the theatre who enjoy nothing more than to fuss over a bit of a scrape or weal. I would be dishonest if I did not admit that at times, if they believe such marks to be a dueling wound or other mark of adventure, I rarely correct them – they find such things to be rather romantic."

She would not be swayed. "Sir, I would never have asked if I'd known that such a thing would ..."

Anthony laid a soft hand on her arm and looked her in the eye, all dissembling gone. "I would rather a few scrapes than let your sister stay with such a man five minutes more. We are of one mind on that, are we not?" As the woman finally offered a hesitant nod, Anthony regained his genuine smile of pleasure. "Then we're agreed. As I trust you will let one of us know in the morning if anything more is needed for your sister, Miss Dawes, I'm off to bed," Anthony announced as he turned and went up the steps, as if it had all been a part of one of his plays and he hadn't a care in the world, leaving a somewhat uncertain trio – including an even more deeply puzzled McGee – at the bottom of the staircase.

Gibbs' gaze lingered upon the retiring hero, frowning slightly in consideration of Anthony's unexpected, sudden retreat, to McGee's mind due to his worry that the younger man might be more injured than he let on. After only a moment, though, Gibbs turned to Miss Dawes and asked softly, "you're sure that your sister is in a safe place, and will have a place to go after that? You well know the number of rooms we have and should she need a place..."

"She is safe, sir, thanks to Mr. Anthony's quick thinking. She was taken in at the convent for the day or two it will take to arrange her passage, and more or less as needed." She hesitated, clearly wanting to speak, but not as comfortable with Mr. Gibbs as she was with Mr. Anthony in speaking her mind. As soon as he saw it, Gibbs nodded his encouragement to her and she added quickly, eyes filling, "sir, I would not have gone to Mr. Anthony tonight for the world, but he would have killed her if she stayed even one more night under his roof and I didn't know what else to do..."

"You did precisely the right thing; so say I and so said Mr. Anthony on his arrival after," Gibbs assured the trembling woman. "You're sure that neither you nor your sister were hurt in any way in your adventures this evening?"

"Yes, sir; only a bit of excitement but not the kind that broke bones, like Nettie's had before from him," the woman admitted. "Sir, I don't know how I could ever repay your kindness, let alone Mr. Anthony's, but I will be happy to do whatever I can to oblige."

Gibbs softened ever so slightly into one of his rare smiles and nodded, "I know you would, Miss Dawes, but you have joined this household and as you have seen, we look out for each other. Your 'payment' has been the care you have given the house and its members since you joined us. With such a motley assortment underfoot here, and all our odd comings and goings, that is more payment than has been earned."

McGee watched as the girl actually managed a smile and a nod, adding a bit of backbone back into her curtsey. "Thank you, sir." And though she was still dressed for her evening home and not for her duties in the house, she added, her chin a little higher than when she entered and her voice far more confident, "will there be anything more this evening, sir?"

"Not tonight, Miss Dawes. Thank you."

"Thank _you_, sir. Mr. McGee," she nodded to him as well, with a bit of a bob for him, and turned back the way she came.

McGee had stood silently in the hallway for the duration of events, and continued standing as the wheels turned furiously with the drama that had unfolded in the hallway, one no less surprising and riveting than one of Tony's plays. He wasn't sure how long he remaining, blinking, before the same quiet voice took _him_ to task. "It's grown late, McGee. Is my cellar safe for the night or do you need to get back down there and secure whatever project you have underway this evening?"

"Oh! Oh, no, sir... I mean, yes, sir; all is quite safe..." And before he allowed himself thought to stop himself, he added, "at least ... all in the basement is safe. Will Anthony be?"

"I would not let anything happen to him, Timothy, any more than I would let it happen to you." McGee wasn't sure if he was more taken by the gentle tone of Gibbs's voice or the words offered therein.

"But if he runs off like that without letting anyone know.."

"And that is a familiar problem, but it's one about which we have had discussions, Anthony and I, and which is a debate of long standing. I believe I am slowly winning." McGee had to look close, but believed he saw a glimmer of amusement in the icy blue eyes. "But there will be no more solo adventures this evening, so if you'll excuse me I have a bit more work I would like to finish before the end of the night."

"Yes, sir; of course." As Gibbs passed, Timothy tipped his head to Gibbs in a nod tellingly like the curtsey Miss Dawes had offered them only minutes ago. Now alone in the hall, Timothy listened to the sounds of the household – _his_ household – as the other inhabitants settled in for the night. For all the secrets and adventures, for all the deception and violence, McGee was even more certain he had been fortunate enough to stumble into a band of men – and women, he reminded himself – more honorable than any he'd ever met before.

...but he also suspected that his expectation of getting to know the others as well as he'd assumed he would, given that they were under Gibbs roof, was also as naive as he'd been on his arrival in London those many months ago...

**To be continued!**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur**_.

_A/N: Many thanks to everyone who read the opening chapter of this story, and special thanks for those of you who sent reviews, or set alerts and favorites for this story – the encouragement is so appreciated! It would be great to keep hearing from you; the plot is pretty well set but the chapters are still in progress; I'm about two chapters ahead right now, so your input may help the final touches as the story goes along. _

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 2**

The next morning both Gibbs and Anthony were up and moving about before Timothy was, despite his own relatively early rise. He felt a trifle guilty; had he more fully considered the events of the evening prior, he would have realised that both men would have sent for word of Miss Dawes' sister and of Miss Dawes herself at daybreak, to assure themselves that both women were well and to be ready for whatever action might be necessary should additional assistance be needed of them.

But his feelings of guilt at the hour – and at his failure to anticipate his employer's actions – were soon replaced by a return of the petulant disappointment he had initially that he had not been included in the plot, or at least in the information he had managed to glean from the interchanges late the night before. Thinking matters over again as he dressed, he felt even a bit more flummoxed that he had not been informed of Miss Dawes' troubles, as he was not only a member of the household in which she now made her livelihood, but was more and more a part of Gibbs' various adventures, both large and small. _Surely a matter relating to one of the servants should warrant a mention, should it not? Such a courtesy was not an unreasonable expectation. Granted, Gibbs was not one to spare more information than was absolutely necessary, but his tendency toward a 'need to know' response was particularly frustrating for a matter so close to them all. Even more bedeviling was the silence about it all from Mr. Anthony, who could hardly be said to be taciturn and was rarely at a loss for words_...

Coming into the breakfast room, Timothy saw that, as usual, Mrs. Williams had anticipated his arrival, no doubt by hearing him stir, and had set a place at the table across from Mr. Anthony, who was uncharacteristically seated for his breakfast and happily slathering a frightening amount of good, rich jam onto a freshly baked scone. Although bedecked in bruises that had blossomed into a new range of colours overnight, Anthony appeared, to McGee's surprise, otherwise no more injured than he had represented to them the evening before. It was therefore most likely a combination of his own relief at his friend's well-being, and Anthony's continued demeanor that nothing at all was amiss, that led Timothy's vague sulkiness to resurface into pointed pout. It was also likely abetted by the absence of Gibbs in the immediate vicinity, who still had a bit of a chilling effect on anything less than a brave and manly front.

Still, at least a basic courtesy was demanded of him, so Timothy nodded primly to his breakfast companion as he sat. "Anthony," he began. "Other than some rather garish colouring around your jaw and knuckles, you do appear in the peak of health this morning. Are you feeling any the worse for your adventures last night?"

Not looking at Timothy, but instead looking down his nose aristocratically to his scone, working the jam onto it thickly as if he were a great master working paint onto canvas and never letting his expression change, he said in a low, cautionary tone, "I am fine, thank you, McGee; but let that be the last we discuss last night's matter here. Some things are not fit breakfast discussion..."

The response surprised him; it was wholly unlike Anthony not to take advantage of an opportunity to expound on his more heroic adventures. "But if I am to truly be a part of this household and Gibbs'... uh ... _employ,_" he protested, summarizing their merry band as best he could manage in the moment, "of what benefit is it to keep secrets from me? Did it not occur to either of you that I might have ideas too? Some of my ideas and inventions have been of great help..."

"That is true, McGee," Anthony said even lower and more pedantically, "but _not now..."_

"Then when? After all, I may not have seen as much of the world as you, and certainly not as Gibbs, but..."

McGee's words were most abruptly cut off by the perfect intersection of Anthony's suddenly hearty words and the appearance of the person to whom they were addressed. "Miss Dawes, I daresay these may be the best scones I've had in many a month! You did say you made them yourself, did you not?"

The woman blushed a bit as she automatically curtseyed in a quick bob, clearly pleased that her efforts were well received. "Yes, sir. And the jam, sir, from me own mum; I haven't quite the time or the kitchen for such preparations at the moment."

"Well, thank her for me as well. McGee, what are you waiting for? You'll not taste the like very often, and you're missing a treat if you don't snap them up while they're still warm."

McGee wasn't thrown for more than a moment at the sudden sharp change in Anthony's behaviour, and sensed it was all due to the servant's connection to last night's unpleasantness, but he knew he was still missing something. Nonetheless, as he had begun learning the art of instant dissembling from not only Anthony but Gibbs, he put his best face on things and nodded with a smile, looking up to face the girl. What he saw in her face, though, stilled his intended words – there was such a mix of pain and weariness and relief and gratitude there, all at once, it was difficult to imagine the depths of this injury to herself and her sister. Suddenly finding more honest words, Timothy smiled up to her and said in all candour, "clearly I'm missing a treat, then, as there are few I've ever known who can put such passion and carefree vigour into a good meal as can our Mr. Anthony. If there is anyone an expert on what is good to eat, it would be he."

McGee was rewarded with almost as much of a blush from Miss Dawes as Anthony had been with his own words earlier, but even greater measure of his successful choice of response was the very subtle yet approving glance and nod he received from his associate. "We've plenty of them left, sirs; Mr. Gibbs even had a couple himself this morning." McGee was moved to note how important it seemed to be to the young woman that she find a way to express her appreciation to Anthony and Gibbs, and realized how few people might have been willing – or able – to help her or her sister, no matter what, exactly, their circumstances had been.

And scones were not the limit of Miss Dawes' thanks. As she moved about the room clearing away empty plates that, despite their having no company, Anthony had actually used, the maid had seemed extra solicitous about getting Anthony's overly sweet tea just as he liked it and asked several ways if she could bring them anything more, offering to fetch more food or to warm another kettle for tea. She was careful to include Timothy in her offers, but McGee saw clearly that where she held general appreciation for him, there was a bit of awe about Peggy Dawes as she looked modestly for approval in Anthony's response and when she mentioned Mr. Gibbs in her solicitations.

Understanding began to dawn in McGee, at least for Anthony's insistence that they not discuss the previous night's events over breakfast. With Miss Dawes so close at hand, and her own sister clearly the focal point of whatever adventures had taken place, she could surely overhear anything they might have said. Once again Timothy was struck with a vague confusion, about Mr. Anthony specifically at this moment but in the end about both men and this household, as such concern for servants and their problems was clearly not the usual course for the quality. Even his own merchant father and his humble mother did not view servants as those for whom one needed to spare more than the most basic of attention, providing them of course with shelter and food but giving them no more thought otherwise than one would one's horses. Yet as confident as McGee was in his growing certainty that Anthony's shrouded history was one of quality itself, his care and concern for the lower classes, as was Gibbs,' seemed more what Timothy would have expected from men who had grown up as the servant class themselves and therefore more likely to be sensitive to whatever thoughts and feelings they might have.

Still, nobility or pauper, it appeared that a part of Anthony's 'madness' was to find no less dignity in the lowliest serving wenches than he did in the daughters of Dukes and Earls. While it certainly was an eccentricity of his, he appeared to share it with Gibbs, and neither man wore his feelings lightly or falsely. With this sudden clarity of thought, McGee realised he still might not fully understand all the details of the previous night's adventures, but now understood that Anthony's refusal to discuss it with him, at least this morning, was not to hold him apart from it all, but to avoid upsetting Miss Dawes. McGee took it all in as Anthony breezily responded to the young woman's attentive puttering, finally assuring her they were very well set for breakfast and that she should go enjoy some of her own scones before they cooled.

Suddenly his own childish self-absorption about not being included seemed very petty indeed, and just as Timothy resolved not to dwell on it, Anthony spoke again, his voice even lower than before. "McGee, your ignorance of matters was no plan or device to keep events hidden from you, but simply an effort to preserve a bit of Miss Dawes' privacy. Surely you took enough from the conversations last night to realise that the matter at hand was her family's affair, and one that she might not wish to air, especially to those with whom she has only recently begun to work? No benefit could possibly come from her sister's travails becoming common knowledge. Much ill, however, both great and small, could result from the wrong person gaining the information. But even more important, McGee – it is a matter that is Miss Dawes' to share, not mine and not Gibbs'. And you will find that, in this business of ours, discretion is often the single most important element of the work we're asked to do."

Timothy nodded solemnly, once again realising that his acceptance into Gibbs' household held far more for him than mere shelter and food, and even more than the continuing lessons in handling guns, knives and himself provided by both Gibbs and Anthony. He didn't know if it would ever be fully explained to him, what and who, exactly, his benefactors were, and why they did what they did, but the evening's events had only added to his conviction that both men were of the noblest of character and that, no matter their eccentricities, he owed them his respect and loyalty for their inclusion of him in their midst. "I understand, Anthony, and ... I am ... gratified ... to know that you and Gibbs are as solicitous of Miss Dawes and her sister as you were of, say, the Lady Bennington and her family," he said carefully, hoping to be understood. "It says much of the sort of men you are."

"Indeed?" Anthony's eyes sparkled at that, and he responded to the younger man's sincere praise by shoving the remaining scone into his mouth whole, affecting a clownish leer as jam dribbled out onto the plate below him. "Not at all something that should be advertised, McGee," he managed over his mouthful of breakfast, "unless you want further attention drawn to our ... peculiarities. Do you not know what they say about Gibbs, out on the street?"

"I know what they say about you," Timothy muttered, rolling his eyes at the sudden antic performance before he could help himself.

"Ah, yes, that I'm quite mad, eh?" Anthony finished chewing and swallowed, reaching for his tea. "Helpful in some matters and less so in others. Still, one can manage a goodly number of activities when one is mad that would be questioned in a more sane and somber man."

McGee considered him for a moment, eyes narrowed as he imagined just how far such a reputation could take him, and made bold to ask, "how did such a tale begin?"

He was spared a sideways look of appraisal. "Are you so sure it's a tale, McGee?" Anthony baited him.

"Well, I..." McGee stopped short, and thought about all he had seen and heard in his months under their roof. Several rather long moments later, while he was still weighing the matters of foolhardiness and blind loyalty with legitimate madness, Anthony snorted in a most ungenteel manner.

"And there you have it, McGee. Madness or not?" Timothy was quite literally saved by the bell, as the sound of the doorbell skittering in the hallway surprised them both. At the sound, Anthony stood abruptly and lay his napkin neatly on the table. "Now here's madness – an unexpected visitor at this hour? Surely nothing good comes of such intrusion ... Sir," Anthony amended as Gibbs suddenly materialised in the doorway, clearly as surprised by the bell as were his employees. "It _is_ then an uninvited visitor?"

"We shall see, Anthony, if you can bear waiting another moment," Gibbs cautioned.

It was only just that, another moment, before Miss Dawes appeared in the doorway as well and, with a murmur and curtsey to Gibbs, went on to Anthony to hand him an envelope. "For you, Mr. Anthony. The coachman is waiting for a reply."

With a frown, Anthony took the proffered envelope and tore into it, shaking loose the folded note it held. Clear surprise took his features, and although Gibbs waited in silence, trusting that the information would come, McGee worried, "it is nothing to do with last night's matter, is it?"

"I hardly think so, Timothy," Anthony's voice was strangely quiet. He looked up to Gibbs with some question in his expression as, without further discussion, he handed the correspondence to Gibbs. As he did so, McGee caught a brief glimpse of an embossed gold mark of some sort on the front of the snowy, rich paper, spelling the wealth of its sender – and catching the immediate attention of his employer. The room was silent as Gibbs read the note, his expression darkening as he did. After several moments Anthony spoke. "While you need not go, sir, I can hardly refuse."

"You'll not go alone. And ... I am as included as you are in this," Gibbs waved the note in between them. "It just does not bode well, this vague summons; you know that..."

"Your preternatural sense of doom again, sir?" Anthony asked flippantly, yet not quite hiding the seriousness of his words that were more statement than question, as he took the note back in hand. Even Timothy had been in the household long enough to know just how accurate Gibbs' sense of equilibrium could be and had come to trust that when Gibbs said all was well, it was, and when he said the opposite, it was time to take care. At the look Gibbs offered Anthony in return, McGee spoke up, looking from one man to the other.

"Sir – Anthony," he implored tersely. "Please."

Given the discussion of the morning, Anthony's response was swift if not still a bit cryptic. "It is a request, McGee, that I might go to meet an acquaintance immediately about a matter of some urgency – and that I bring my employer. From the tenor of the note it would seem our professional option is sought."

"But ... that is highly irregular, isn't it? Sir?" McGee looked from Anthony to Gibbs in confusion. "That you'd be called out like this?"

"Not unlike what you did in pulling me out of the theatre, McGee," Anthony managed to grumble despite his otherwise grave response to their caller. "But I suspect that this may bear even more need for haste – and, more's the irony, given our discussion this morning, the need for our discretion."

"A likely reason he has called on you rather than the Met," Gibbs murmured, then drew a deep breath, straightening. "This is your engagement, Anthony; if you accept this summons I will go along unless you ask me not to join you, but in either case it would seem wise that you proceed without delay."

"What, dressed like this, sir? I cannot; I anticipated only breakfast and a morning back at the stables to work the horses, not such an engagement."

"Anthony, surely if time is of the essence... " Timothy dared to interject.

"There are some conventions that are not easily breached, McGee," Anthony said sternly, turning on his heel to walk to the entryway, where the driver waited. As Gibbs and McGee followed a step behind, Timothy did his best to catch all he could about the man waiting there for Anthony's response. What he saw was a slender, well-kempt man, his clothing plain but clean, and of a finer weave and cloth than most of McGee's own, and his bearing not one bit like that of a servant, but like one used to being served. Following Gibbs' lead to stand behind Anthony some distance but clearly there in his support, McGee was intrigued to see Anthony hesitate the barest moment when he saw the man's face. But with an immediate, unconscious straightening of his spine, Anthony walked the remaining distance to the man and, to the surprise of the others, tipped his head in a deferential greeting. "I regret that I do not recall your name, sir, but well remember your face and station. _You_ are here as driver, then, rather than one of the usual coachman, in order to ...?"

"Provide any further information you may require to accept the engagement, Mr. Anthony, and to provide any ... encouragement ... that you may need to do so."

McGee may not have been raised with the quality, and may have been in London less than a year, but in his employ with Gibbs had begun to develop an ear for the sounds of the many peoples making up the cosmopolitan world in which he now lived. And the man's speech spoke of money and education and culture well beyond his own, and certainly beyond any coachman's; McGee thought he noted a touch of something else, something in the man's pronunciation with which he was not familiar, which simply added to the wholly inappropriate fit between the man and his purported role.

Clearly Anthony knew the man; he was nodding, not surprised at the sound of him, and not asking any more at the moment. "Fifteen minutes, please, and I ..." With a quick look behind him, Anthony met Gibbs eyes and, catching the slight nod, turned back to amend, "_we_ will be ready to go." He started to turn to go but then, remembering his manners, turned back to offer, "we have just been having breakfast, sir, and there is a wealth of fresh scones and jam to have with tea if you would like..."

The man raised a hand to demur, elegantly, and shook his head, "thank you, no – I breakfasted some time ago."

Anthony considered him for a long moment, evidently trying to decide if the words indicated the severity of the matter they were to attend, or the man's disapproval that they had eaten a rather long time after daybreak. Breaking his reverie, he added, "oh – and, as you see, we are now three; Mr. Gibbs has brought along another employee, Mr. McGee here, into his work. It would be our wish to have him join us, with your permission."

Gibbs frowned his surprise slightly at that; the driver hesitated, clearly not happy with the thought either.

"Sir – he is as trustworthy with a matter requiring discretion as are both Gibbs and I," Anthony said evenly, his words surprising and warming McGee with their trust, "and has knowledge of matters of science that we have found to be a great adjunct to our own, more ... traditional ... methods. If you seek my service," his voice dropped slightly, "it would only be aided by allowing us to do our work the way we do it best."

It was only another moment before the man nodded. "Fifteen minutes," he agreed without more, and, with another quick tip of his head, Anthony came back to where McGee and Gibbs stood in the hall. "I don't know about you, sir, but I am going up to change. McGee, go on – put on your best afternoon coat; I'll help you with your cravat. And top hat, McGee, the grey one that suits the coat..."

"Tony," McGee sputtered in a whispered hiss, quite confused now. "Just who is this acquaintance of yours?"

With a look of near exasperation, Anthony wavered only a moment, then flipped the open note under McGee's nose. In a strong, clear hand Timothy read, _My Dear Mr. Anthony – I have need of your services immediately. If you would be so kind to come at once, with your employer, my driver will be at your disposal to accommodate you._ McGee looked back to the green eyes watching him intently and shrugged at the words, still not seeing what made this so unusual. "And?" he asked Anthony impatiently.

"The _signature_, McGee."

He looked back at the note and the simple, single name at the end of the note. "Wales?" he asked. He shook his head, stubbornly. "I'm sure whatever this Mr. Wales would have us do would not require..."

But by then Anthony had snapped the note shut and flipped the note back around to face him, the embossed coat of arms glittering slightly as it jiggled before him. "Not _'Mr.'_ Wales, my young, innocent McGee. _Wales._" He blinked at McGee in surprise when the revelation still meant nothing to the younger man, then glanced up at Gibbs. "By my soul, sir, he really doesn't..."

"Go on and change, Anthony," Gibbs said in something of a long-suffering sigh, then turned to the younger man as Anthony hurried up the stairs toward his room. "It's how he signs his name, McGee." With a glance to the driver who was waiting and, rather impetuously now, watching them from the hall, Gibbs said evenly, "it is from the Prince of Wales."

_**...to be continued...**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur**_.

_A/N: It's been **so** great to get all the reviews and alerts and favorites on this story – every e-mail from FFN makes me grin all over, especially for this attempt in a whole new (old?) universe. Thank you all for reading and letting me know that you've enjoyed things so far. It's such a boost!_

_A seriously heartfelt thanks to the internet, from which I have learned an incredible amount about Victorian England, its customs and trappings, its royals and royal kin, and everything else that goes with it. There's no way I could have written any of this without all the information available out there on these topics. Phew!_

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 3**

When Timothy emerged wearing his one, "presentable" day coat, as Anthony had called it, with the cravat he knew would pass the man's fiercest scrutiny, he came downstairs to the first landing to find Anthony pacing restively in dress that, for him, was surprisingly understated – not funereal, of course, but nonetheless serious and understated and, McGee noted, quite elegant – as if Anthony had something lying about just waiting for his summons for a morning audience before royalty. Gibbs stood slightly apart from his second, waiting as well, but for what, Timothy suddenly was not wholly certain.

As Timothy's foot hit the last step to the landing, Anthony pivoted back to look at him. It was apparent that even Gibbs had bowed to Anthony's protocol directives, as he now stood by with his own topper in hand, clad in suitable day wear of his own. McGee grumbled to himself that if he remained in Gibbs' employ much longer he would need to build his own wardrobe fit for so many different places and times and events it would rival even Anthony's. Hearing that, Gibbs spared him the smallest of smiles, albeit an understanding one, but clearly the business had his senses alert for whatever it was that apparently raised some foreboding in him. Feeling for the world like a child lined up for a paternal inspection, McGee readied himself for Anthony's tense scrutiny, understanding that if this was _his_ appointment, for an acquaintance of such eminence, then he had a right to feel nervous upon the presentation of his associates. But to his surprise, after a brief moment of consideration, Anthony's dark expression lightened for a moment in a slight, appreciative smile.

"Let's have a look at you, McGee," he said, almost formally, coming closer to straighten McGee's cravat. "My apologies if you already know this, McGee, and I've some hope that the information will not be needed at all – but should the Prince or Princess or any of the royal siblings actually appear whilst we are there – it's 'your Royal Highness' on first meeting then 'sir' or 'ma'am' from that point onward. Understand?" He finished with McGee's cravat around the younger man's nod and added, "now then – you _do_ know how to bow, do you not?"

Any protest McGee might have raised in normal circumstances died on his tongue, seeing the change in Anthony's manner and the lack of his usual high spirits as they readied for their appointment. Another quick glance to Gibbs found the older man as inscrutable as ever: not tense, but unsmiling; not worried, exactly, but as alert and watchful as he'd ever seen him. Once again not quite sure of what lay behind it all, Timothy managed a smile for the man who could never let him leave the house without fussing at his neckwear. "I do, Anthony."

Something in his response made the man pause and consider him again, seeming now to look more on the inside of him than the outside, and, possibly finding McGee's questions reflected back at him, Anthony seemed to relax marginally and offered a small nod of approval. "Right, then. Good man." With a step back for a final appraisal, he nodded once and turned toward the stairs.

Without a doubt, Anthony was all business and, to Timothy's continuing surprise, apparently rather in dread of the appointment. He'd have thought that a summons to the palace, and a chance to show off his connection with and importance to royalty, would fill Anthony's head with insufferable pride. McGee suddenly frowned to himself. Admittedly he was not experienced in the matter of being summoned by one's sovereign, but Anthony's manner was most assuredly not what he would expect of _anyone_ called upon by the crown. _Anthony had indeed said the summons came from an "acquaintance," did he not? _Timothy considered now._ And the missive was written in the most familiar of tones ... _

Even though the matter had clearly been placed in Anthony's lap by the nature of the summons, Timothy was not expecting to see Gibbs hang back as he did to allow Anthony's lead, both down the stairs and on to the appointment. Even more unexpected was how strongly Anthony took to the role, as focused and serious as Gibbs had ever been. With a quick mental nudge to himself, McGee fell into step behind Gibbs as they both followed Mr. Anthony to the entryway, where the 'coachman,' still simply standing in the hall, watched them approach.

Coming closer to their visitor, Timothy determined he would get a better look at him now, while they were all still in the calm of their own home, and was given the chance as the man turned to face them a bit more fully at their approach, any pretense of being a simple driver gone from him. He appeared to be of an age somewhere close to Anthony's, but spoke and bore himself as if decades older, and had a bearing not at all unlike Gibbs's own, making McGee think he might be a military man. It was his eyes, though, that were most telling; they held intelligence and the sort of quick-witted appraisal that one rarely saw, again reminding Timothy of Gibbs and even Anthony, ever on watch for the slightest bit of intelligence to be gleaned from the world around them. _Not only an important personage, but a clever and dangerous one as well?_ Timothy wondered. At the very moment of his thought, the man shifted his glance to McGee's own and, with only the moment to take the measure of him, the faux-driver offered Timothy the smallest nod and smile. McGee tried to return it in kind while swallowing the start it gave him as he cautioned himself, _and one just as adept as is Gibbs at reading my mind..._

"Your Highness." Ahead of him, Anthony was speaking again as he tipped his head to the man, and his sudden use of the title drew McGee's eyebrows up yet another inch. "Your appearance, both in our hallway and in the costume in which you present yourself, took me by enough surprise that it was several moments before I could place you, and for that I apologize. I do hope you won't take offence by it."

"Not in the least, Mr. Anthony, and I daresay that I could almost say the same." In the man's tone and in the small twitch at the corner of Anthony's eye, Timothy sensed an undercurrent of meaning that passed between them, but before he could wonder further at it the man spoke again. "And I hope you all will forgive the unannounced intrusion and abrupt nature of the summons, but I assure you that all will be clear soon enough."

Anthony nodded once, soberly, and turned slightly to include Gibbs and Timothy, still standing apart, behind him. "Sir, may I present Mr. Gibbs, my employer, as you know, and Mr. Timothy McGee, of Mr. Gibbs' recent employ as well and my newest associate. Mr. Gibbs, Mr. McGee – this is His Serene Highness, Prince Louis of Battenberg."

_A prince as their driver?_ McGee simply stared until Gibbs' slight bow led him to do the same. Timothy wasn't exactly sure the what or whom of Battenberg, and although he was fairly certain that such royalty wouldn't typically serve as servants to the English royal family, he did know that there were connections and family ties amongst the crowned heads of Europe and that the Queen herself had a European lineage. Even coming on the heels of his newest revelations that morning, in this household full of kindness to its servants, the idea was nearly too preposterous to consider – until he looked again at the eyes of this 'coachman' that seemed to miss nothing, and Timothy sensed that he would be just the sort to step in when matters were very grave indeed.

No wonder then at Anthony's sobriety and concern.

The "Prince" met Gibbs' eyes as well as Timothy's again, in brief acknowledgment, before turning back to Anthony, who wordlessly nodded and followed the man outside to the street. The clarence awaiting them at the curb was a fine one, to be sure, but one without the appointments and finery one expected of royalty, without coat of arms or any sort of markings to inform the public of its owner. After only a moment the reason dawned on McGee, as he chastised himself for even wondering. _If a prince was sent to fetch us in the guise of a coachman, then surely discretion_, as Anthony had cautioned him, _was of utmost importance. What would be the point of clothing a prince as a driver if the carriage itself told the world of our destination? _

And with that thought – as he climbed into the nondescript but nonetheless luxurious carriage – McGee realized he had no idea exactly where this Battenberg Prince intended to take them.

Once the men had settled into the fine leather upholstery, Prince Louis remained standing at the carriage door and looked to his passengers. "The purpose of your visit is somewhat ... sensitive," he explained, "so I will have to ask that you allow the screens to remain in place as they are." McGee involuntarily let his eyes wander across the back window and the doors on either side, suddenly understanding the purpose of the thin, loosely woven fabric through which he could see a ghost of things beyond them, but which in all likelihood made them invisible to the outside world. "It is not to prevent you from seeing the path to our destination, but to avoid the curious stares of those who might be along the way from seeing you." Without more, and without a moment's delay to allow his 'guests' an opportunity to question him, the Prince shut the carriage door and the three passengers were left looking at each other in the slightly dimmed interior.

As they sat back for the ride, McGee looked to Anthony as a thousand questions turned over in his mind, not the least of which was what possessed Anthony to ask that he come along. He supposed it could be in response to their discussion over breakfast about his being left out of the planning to assist Ms. Dawes and her sister, but he realised right away that even if Mr. Anthony had taken his complaints to heart, which he may well have done, it was not likely that he would bring him along in such circumstances merely to make amends. More likely it was the untold nature of what they might find ahead; just as Anthony had said, better to bring all their assets into the mix to see what might be seen. His face must have shown his puzzlement, because, as they pulled away from Gibbs' home, his employer said quietly, "McGee, if you have any hesitancy in joining us you'd be advised to say it now rather than further on into the affair."

Timothy blinked, first in surprise at Gibbs' words then in an effort to shake off any appearance of uncertainty. "No; I am glad to come along for whatever use I may be. I am simply ... unsettled, I suppose ... at the speed of these sudden events and the apparent identity of our new patron."

"'_Apparent'_ identity, McGee?" Timothy was unable to interpret Anthony's tense expression or his clipped response. "Whose word do you doubt – mine, or the Prince's, or the heir to the throne?"

"None," Timothy replied immediately, rising to the bait, whether it was unintended as such or not. While Anthony's response to the unusual circumstances might have been unfamiliar, quibbling with the man had become more and more easily done the longer McGee remained under Gibbs' roof. "It is simply not what I would have expected on a lazy Saturday morning, which was how my day began not an hour ago. And I had _not_ expected to learn, that same morning," his eyes narrowed as his voice dropped to a quieter but more challenging huff, "that I was sharing breakfast with an 'acquaintance' of the future king of England! That in itself is something I would have expected you to mention in one of your many lengthy stories of your adventures abroad."

"I might have, McGee, had I understood that he knew me as more than yet another face among the many at the theatre, that he actually knew my name and my employment," Anthony hissed back, no doubt to avoid being overheard by the driver, even over the clatter of hooves and wheels outside. "The prince is at the theatre nearly as often as I, possibly even more, but that hardly means he would take note of my comings and goings."

"I don't know why not," McGee grumbled. "Everyone else in London seems to do just that. They certainly knew of your long held plans to attend a certain play on the night we met."

Notwithstanding his earlier sobriety and the extreme circumstances in which they found themselves, Anthony gaped at the younger man and rolled his eyes. "And yet _again_, McGee? _I_ was the one whose evening was interrupted, and yet _you_ have been the one to chafe long after the evening in question at the concern shown by those who knew how long and how intently I had looked forward to that particular performance."

McGee remembered the endless number of people who inquired, even weeks afterward, about 'that particular performance' and how it was McGee's interruption that had prevented Anthony from seeing even the first moment of it. "I simply cannot fathom how more than half the town seemed to know that you..."

"Mark my words," Gibbs' low growl interrupted suddenly, no mistaking his tone or his intention, "if one more thought is uttered about that damned performance, I will ensure that the whole of London knows how the two of you met a sudden and untimely end this very morning." With a pointed glare to them both, he waited the moment to be sure they understood, then lessened his intensity slightly as he turned back to Anthony to ask, as quiet as Anthony had been before, "Anthony – do you have the first idea as to what all this is all about?"

With a quick shake of his head, Anthony was uncharacteristically brief. "No, sir."

"Any speculation?"

"No, sir," he repeated.

"Any knowledge of events that might lend themselves to the Prince calling on _us,_ rather than the Met or the Queen's guards, for whatever it may be?"

The younger man shook his head, his expression undecipherable. "No, sir." He paused a little, then to added, "I recall overhearing someone talk of a small dinner party to be held last night at Marlborough House, but only in answer to the question of the Prince's attendance at the new play opening this weekend – not to provide any information about the dinner or those attending." He sighed. "I have nothing worthwhile to offer on the matter, sir."

Gibbs nodded, not exactly settled with Anthony's words, but appearing to react to the younger man's frustration with a calmer acceptance of things as they stood. With a long, appraising look, Gibbs then tipped his head slightly to offer, "it would not be the first time we started with nothing, Anthony." Although still serious, Gibbs' tone had softened slightly, quite likely as a balm for the other's unsettled mind.

The expressions and terse conversation of the others simply confirmed McGee's earlier suspicion that neither Gibbs nor Anthony relished the attentions paid on them in this instance by the Prince, and fed his growing sense that they anticipated unpleasantness. His curiosity about such an unexpected response demanded satisfaction, but in this McGee sensed that the way might be difficult. In the ensuing silence, however, a reasonable purpose occurred to him which led him to ask Gibbs, quite respectfully, "sir ... if you and Anthony have some concern about what lies ahead ... is there something about which I should be forewarned, so as not to put the wrong foot in? Something other than using the wrong bow or addressing them by the wrong title or any of the other concerns Anthony has already addressed, I mean."

As he spoke, Gibbs turned the full of his penetrating blue stare upon him, but Timothy, having convinced himself that his question sought information that would benefit them all, if it kept him from an ill-advised step, did not falter. Gibbs' scrutiny lasted only another few moments and, to Timothy's surprise, the older man's gaze relented and even seemed to reflect a sort of proud satisfaction with what he saw.

But any satisfaction or pride Gibbs might have held for him did not lift the heaviness of his reply, as with a glance toward Anthony, and apparently noting that the younger man was disturbed enough that he was not going to offer any explanation, Gibbs spoke again, his voice low and grave. "How familiar are you with the comings and goings of our Prince of Wales, McGee?"

Timothy had not expected the question and blinked the moment, his initial thoughts not those spoken lightly even in familiar company. "Well, this _is_ London," he began, feeling a bit awkward, "so of course one hears rumors..."

"Indeed. And not are all wholesome or kind, do you agree?" At McGee's relieved nod, telling Gibbs that the younger man likely had enough information to appreciate what could be in store, Gibbs sighed, "in any matters that would take the authorities' attention, the Metropolitan Police have jurisdiction for the royal residences or places of assembly here in town. Outside of those areas they would be attended by the local constabulary. The Queen's Guards certainly step in as needed, as well, as they hold responsibility for the royals' safety.

"Consider the matter that brought you to us, McGee. The death of your landlord seemed suspicious to you, as it should have been to the police, yet they spared little time for Mr. Davies. Therefore, you were moved to seek _us_ out to do the tasks that the police should have done. Did you yourself not worry that they overlooked Mr. Davies in a way they would not have, but for his lack of wealth or title?" As Gibbs saw the light of understanding spark briefly in McGee's eyes, he urged, softly, "and so, under the same line of thought, for whom would you think the authorities _would _expend their time and trouble, once they learnt of it?" As the answer dawned in McGee's now-focused attention, Gibbs nodded his confirmation and went on, "and yet there is now a matter that the highest of royalty sends for _us_, in secrecy, trusting only another royal to ferry us to the scene? There are several possibilities that spring to mind, but none of them bode too well for anyone involved in the matter."

As McGee's eyes rounded in appreciation of the others' concern, Anthony added quietly, "our driver, Prince Louis, is a cousin or other of the Prince's – he is usually at his side, at the theatre and, as I have heard, elsewhere; he himself is not only born and bred to the sort of life the Prince leads but is skilled as both a personal guard and secretary. He is rumored to be brighter in nearly all ways than is our future king, who himself is just bright enough to appreciate his own ... _limitations_ ... in certain areas, and he keeps our Prince Coachman here close as a confidante, advisor, bodyguard and ... when needed ... arranger of services, whatever they might be."

"So ... you fear that ..." Timothy began, only to be interrupted before he could say more.

"In the matters of the royals and of Prince Albert Edward," Anthony spoke up even as he saw that Gibbs had begun to do so as well, uncharacteristically interrupting their employer but doing so in a tone that brooked no dispute, "it is better not to speculate aloud. I suggest we simply ... wait and see."

Gibbs looked back to Anthony for a long, assessing moment before silently tipping his chin in a curt, acquiescing nod. Better understanding their foreboding, for all that it might mean, McGee's brow furrowed to match the others in the carriage as they made their way smoothly but efficiently away from home and into the heart of the city.

_**...to be continued...**_


	4. Chapter 4

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur**_.

_A/N: Your reviews, PMs and alerts have been like chocolate covered cherries! Or marzipan cookies. Or a slice of __**real**__ Chicago-style pizza. Or authentic New York cheesecake. Or..._

... _well, you get the idea. Many many thanks! As our present day DiNozzo says, all of you go "get yourself a probie-snack - but not from my desk, from the vending machine." _

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 4**

The remainder of the ride passed with little real conversation, anticipation weighing them all, but there was a bit of dialogue between Gibbs and Anthony that might have been comical in other circumstances: each man, in a sort of unspoken accord, watched his limited view as best he could through the fabric screens hiding them from the world, and quietly spoke out occasional landmarks to fix their location along their way. It was almost like a child's game, one Timothy had played with his sister when she was a toddler on their occasional trips into town, calling out a color and urging her to find things that fit. Despite the gravity of the situation, he thought if he heard Gibbs suddenly declare "I spy something_ green... _" he might be quite unable to control himself.

But his private moment of absurdity aside, McGee did what he could to watch and, given the locations the others identified, was able to offer up a few of his own, gaining him a nod of approval from Gibbs. From this sort of travelogue that developed with all three contributing, it became clear that they were headed down the Mall and toward Buckingham Palace. Yet they did not make the full length of that ride; they bore off at an angle and then made a looping path that would not end at the great palace. Gibbs and Anthony exchanged a look that made McGee think they had not only deduced their destination but had gleaned the other's agreement on it by some manner of thought-transference, and just as he was screwing up his courage to ask what that destination might be, the sound of the horse's hooves on the cobblestones suddenly shifted to bounce back readily, quite close to them, and the interior of the clarence was thrown into near-darkness. Within moments their forward momentum slowed and they pulled up to a graceful halt.

When they opened the carriage doors Timothy saw just why it had grown dark: they had pulled into a covered entry, closed off from casual view, affording both privacy and protection from the elements – and, to Timothy at least – complete anonymity as to the identity of their destination, as he could see only the short expanse of the covered drive and the unadorned, private entrance it served. A quick glance to Gibbs and Anthony gave him no indication if either man knew where he was, but that, he quickly realized, should be expected of them.

Timothy followed Gibbs and Anthony out of the carriage to stand at its side as their driver, Prince Louis, deftly flicked the reins around an open bar on the carriage's front frame and spoke curtly to a stableboy who materialized to lead the horses and carriage away. Other than the boy and themselves, there was not another soul about, and even the usual bustling sounds of the city seemed muted around them. As the horses began to follow the lad as he made to lead them off, the Prince turned back to his passengers and, barely pausing to speak, led them inside with a terse, "gentlemen ... this way."

McGee swallowed, hard, as he stepped inside. Growing more and more certain that most of their involvement in this engagement would be an unidentified puzzle, at least to him, Timothy resolved to commit as much of what he saw to memory as he could, so that he could ask Anthony about it all later, trusting that the man would know more of what was going on than he did and would know more about where they were and what they'd see. At the moment, they were walking down a small, unadorned hall, which was nonetheless freshly painted and tidy, quite likely at the back of the premises and, McGee surmised therefrom, a servant's entrance. The hall led to a stairway of similar description, solidifying McGee's belief in his assumptions. He was quite sure that not even a minor duke or marquis would maintain a place that welcomed its guests from a stately but very private drive into a plain and humble passageway.

The men negotiated two more halls and another stairway that gave no clue to the sort of building they were in until, after passing along the second hallway, which had been much like the others but with the addition of several small, closed doors, they came to a somewhat larger door at the hallway's end. For the first time since their arrival, their guide stopped and turned to them. Also for the first time, throughout the whole mysterious business, the Prince seemed to hesitate, albeit only briefly, from his keen focus on getting the men there. It was only a moment, however, before he threw off the slight air of indecision and again steeled his expression as he squared his shoulders. Tipping his chin up slightly, he said quietly, "I trust I needn't remind you that this is a matter of extreme delicacy and confidence. I have your word, all of you, that none of what you see or hear or learn here will be repeated outside our company?"

McGee and Anthony both murmured their assent, but Gibbs said quietly, "none out of our company, Sir, unless we are allowed to avail ourselves of others of our acquaintance who, from time to time, lend their skills to our investigation. They would be called upon only if their particular abilities are indicated, but as Mr. Anthony suggested earlier, without them we cannot assure you that we can be as effective as we would be with their assistance."

The Prince frowned, weighing Gibbs' words, but in the next moment nodded brusquely, his apparent need for their best work winning out over his clear preference for limiting their numbers. "You will not bring anyone else into this investigation without my agreement beforehand." With Gibbs' nod of assent to his conditions, the Prince put his hand on the knob of the closed door before them, offering a final warning before he turned it. "If you will keep your voices low, gentlemen – this wing should be empty at the moment, but in the event it is not, I would prefer that we remain as unobtrusive as possible." Seeing each man nod again, the Prince opened the door and led the way through.

Timothy would remember the moment as seeming to be as abrupt a change as would be walking from a dark room into light, or walking from a freezing rain into a warmed room. From the simple painted halls they had just traveled, the four men stepped into a short hallway at least four times as wide and as tall, carpeted in deep woolen rugs and lined with fine portraits and gilded molding, and which led to a large, elegant parlor filled with sumptuously upholstered chairs and couches. Two long pianofortes unlike any McGee had ever seen were placed in tandem, facing each other, near an enormous marble fireplace, and a harp taller than he stood in a nearby corner. Paintings lined the walls, but of children and family scenes rather than the formal portraits they had passed before. This room alone seemed larger than the house in which he grew up, and nearly as large as the fine, large ballroom in which the Travingtons held their ball until his clock caused even more mayhem than they had by their abrupt entry into the festivities. Yet the room had a softer, welcoming air about it, and McGee found himself wondering if the Royals themselves actually _lived_ in this room, read their correspondence or played their table games, much like any other family would in far less grand homes than this.

If either Gibbs or Anthony were surprised at the sumptuous surroundings, neither showed it, and it occurred to Timothy that if their newest client was indeed the Prince of Wales, a concept with which he was still having some difficulty coming to terms, it would be far more likely they would have been brought to a place like this than another. As the three of them followed their princely escort across the great parlor, Timothy bringing up the rear, he allowed his eyes to dart around the room more freely than he might have done had others been likely to catch sight of him, as he was at the moment gaping like a country lad on his first trip to the City.

From the parlor they crossed into an anteroom, and into another hall of sorts, leading off toward two other large rooms for gathering, although for guests or private functions Timothy could not determine, everything being far more fine and elegant than any of the finest homes he'd seen as a boy. They were led through the room on their right, and, at a doorway at the far side, their guide once again stopped. Turning to them with a look of studied calm, the man simply stood back from the doorway and lifted his hand toward the inner chamber. "Gentlemen..."

Being behind the others, what Timothy saw first was not what they had apparently been brought to see, but the others' reaction to it: Gibbs, as always, barely showed any change in his expression, save the tiny flicker in his gaze and a brief twitch of his jaw. Anthony was not so stoic; he paled slightly but noticeably, his eyes widening in surprise as he stared inside, then looked back toward the Prince in question. Unable to resist any longer, McGee came forward to round the corner into the doorway and look past the others into the room, where, amid the elegant fittings of a woman's sitting room, all silks and brocades, lay a woman, face down on the floor, in a pose frighteningly reminiscent of Timothy's former landlord – and just as dead.

There wasn't a sound save for their own breath and the slow, stately _tock_ of a clock somewhere. Gibbs' eyes carefully scanned the room, taking it all in. But the first of them to move was Anthony, who suddenly left the group to approach the poor woman, first up along her left side, where her face was tipped away from him slightly, then around to her right shoulder, where he crouched near to look at her face. Despite his efforts to remain unmoved, Anthony was still clearly rattled – and clearly recognized the victim.

With Anthony's actions, Gibbs was not far behind him, and McGee fell into familiar step with their mentor as he crossed the room. The Prince followed them in silent expectation. "Anthony," Gibbs spoke softly, observing his assistant more closely for the moment than the corpse before them, his concern for the surroundings and their company fading at Anthony's reaction to her. His question was obvious in his tone.

The younger man looked up, his green eyes meeting first not Gibbs' eyes, but the Prince's, and carrying an unexpected mix of emotion, question, and even – _is it possible?_ Timothy wondered – _accusation_. Anthony said nothing, asked nothing, but his glare bore daggers into the eyes of their escort, neither station or surroundings or social convention having the least effect on the rage reflected there.

"Anthony," Gibbs spoke again, more firmly this time, and with the very slightest of warning in its tone that might be missed by anyone not as long under Gibbs' roof as he and Anthony had been. "Who is she?" There was no question that Anthony knew the answer; no one in the room could have missed the fact that he recognised the woman.

Anthony suddenly came to himself, Gibbs' voice this time having as much effect on him as one of his tempering head-cuffs often did. "Lady Margaret Danforth, sir. Her ..." Just as he'd seemed to recover himself, he then hesitated; resettling himself, he continued, "her husband is Lord Charles Danforth, Sir, an undersecretary at the Foreign Office." Timothy noted Anthony's manner as well as his words, the latter as informative to someone acquainted with him as anything he said: unlike his usual ease, Anthony's aspect was rigid and formal; his eyes had returned to the unmoving Lady Danforth, and his words were each measured and distant, one by one, rather than his usual torrent of irrelevant with the relevant. "She has been in attendance at several of the more popular plays in town of late," he explained, speaking slowly, and though his voice darkened, he maintained rest of his equilibrium as he added, "in the company of Prince Albert Edward and his party."

And in a moment of clarity McGee understood suddenly the implications raging through Anthony's mind – both for how Lady Danforth had met her untimely end and for the purpose of their summons to the scene – and knew they were precisely the sort of thing that had caused both Gibbs and Anthony to so dread their being 'honoured' with this appointment.

McGee watched as Anthony finally tore his eyes away from the dead woman, left so ignominiously to lie across the hand-loomed rug, its cheery rose pattern making a rather ghoulish bier, and heatedly strode back toward Prince Louis Alexander. Without the least bit of deference in his tone or posture, and coming within inches of the man, Anthony glowered, "and just what are you asking us to do? As the Prince directed his inquiry to me, I am at his service, as he and you well know. Having relied on my rather distant acquaintance with him, and my loyalty to the crown, he also asked for my employer to join us, and so Gibbs is here as well, as much to be of support to me as to his sovereign. I, in turn, asked McGee as well. So now you have us at your service. However," he moved even closer and dropped his voice, low, so that it could not be misunderstood as anything but a threat, "if you are asking for us to make findings we would not make otherwise, or to 'change the circumstances' to accord a different sort of result in others' investigations..."

The Prince was unruffled. "My dear Mr. Anthony..."

"I will not allow them to join their names with mine in such a scheme," Anthony went on as if not interrupted. "So if what you want is an outcome and not an investigation, I would have you say so now and find Gibbs and McGee transportation back home."

"I ask nothing of the kind." The Prince's voice was steel, but with resolve, not insult taken. "I ask only for an investigation. I need to know if you can determine at whose hand the Lady Danforth succumbed. Even I can surmise that this was not an accidental death, gentlemen." He looked at the men before him, gauging their reactions. "I need – and your Prince needs – to know if you can tell me who killed her."

**TBC...**

_A/N: Yes, yes, in the first scene, I really wanted McGee to imagine Gibbs saying "I spy, with my little eye" but my historical sources (a couple random internet sites :/ ) state that the game began its life primarily an automobile travel game and the earliest record of it was 1937. However, they do mention a similar line from a much earlier hide and seek sort of game, so that with McGee's own game got me **kinda** close. _

_Almost worth the anachronism, though, isn't it?_**  
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	5. Chapter 5

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur**_.

_A/N: My sincere, ongoing thanks to you readers and reviewers. It's been such a boost to hear from you all, to know your take on these chapters, and to have so many people following this story. All responses, bad, good or indifferent, are still very welcome._

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 5**

At Battenburg's measured words, before Anthony could say more, and hoping his excitable second would take the moment to recover himself, Gibbs turned to face the Prince more fully, scrutinizing him with a look the others had seen before when their mentor's suspicions started taking hold. "Sir..." he began slowly, knowing very well what the answer was before the question was voiced. "We are the first to have been called in on this matter?"

Cooly, the Prince turned away from Anthony's glare to consider Gibbs. "You are."

"It is more customary to call the Metropolitan Police in the matter of an ... 'unexplained' ... death," Gibbs began, "and in the alternative, the Queen's Guards would have been of assistance. Am I wrong to assume you know this, and yet called for us anyway?"

"You are not wrong, Mr. Gibbs." The prince was matter-of-fact. "And you are not wrong if you assume that His Highness trusts your ability to determine her killer more than he does either of the departments you name."

Gibbs' eyes narrowed as his gut churned. He stepped closer and asked, in a low, intent voice, _"Why?"_

Prince Louis did not waiver in his demeanor nor budge his position an inch, even now having raised not only Anthony's but Gibbs' suspicions, but appeared to be considering the question for the moment, and when he replied he spoke his words carefully, as if he was holding his own temper in check. "I am uncertain whether your question is to ask why you were called, or why His Highness trusts you over the others. Either way, I would suggest to you that the whys do not matter. You are here now, and your services are requested. You will take the case?"

Anthony spoke up again, tempered a bit with Gibbs' intervention but no less fierce in his protection of the others. "_I_ will take the case." When the prince turned back to face him, Anthony continued, "as I can hardly deny my sovereign. But it was to _me_ you came; the others are here only in their allegiance to me, and I will not have them put in the sort of unwieldy position with the police that this undoubtedly may create – no matter _what _they say," he added, turning to fix a steely, almost Gibbs-like glare on both McGee and his mentor. He turned back to the Prince and paused, clearly determined to find a way to make them all see things his way. "Please, Sir," Anthony urged, his voice dropping even further as he spoke again, appealing to what he knew had to be the man's appreciation of his concerns, "let me ascertain what I can about this tragic turn of events, and I will tell you all I know that can be done about it."

McGee sensed that there were meanings within meanings in the men's conversations still flying well above his head, the air full of innuendo and implication, but there was no doubt that Anthony was offering himself to the Prince of Wales to undertake alone whatever it was they had in mind, and all in the hope that he would be the only one to bear whatever unspoken doom might result from the business at hand. But, no surprise to McGee, Gibbs would have none of it; he immediately frowned and said, "Anthony will have me at his side if he stays, Sir; he is my employee and I will not let him bear this responsibility alone."

"And ... of course ... the Prince is _your_ sovereign as well, Mr. Gibbs, though I suspect that is of far less importance to you at the moment than is the welfare of your men." Prince Louis' tone was mildly reproachful. "Touching, in its way, but not a particularly well-considered attitude. Still, as we prefer that you remain, you can do so for any reason you choose – as long as you are willing to bear in mind whose business it is that you undertake."

Gibbs hands clenched at his side, never fond of those who claimed greatness by birth rather than by their own actions, and particularly unimpressed by those who set out to tell him he was obliged to do another's bidding, no matter who that 'other' was. "Sir, my word is good, and I am quite sincere when I say I will remain for Anthony's sake – if he stays, I stay. But if he decides to decline your ... _offer _... that he lend his services to you, I will most profoundly commend his good sense in doing so."

"Gibbs." Anthony cautioned, his voice suddenly sounding weary. "I will not have you get yourself banished from the Empire – or _worse_ – on my account." He turned a calmer eye to the prince, who, to McGee's thinking, seemed wholly unfazed by the startling lack of deference Gibbs and Anthony had shown him. "I will stay, your Serene Highness, and therefore, it appears, so will Gibbs, and I suspect therefore, so will Mr. McGee. And now that the formalities have been completed, if you indeed wish us to investigate Lady Danforth's untimely death, may we be about it so her Ladyship need not lie here in such a state for much longer?"

"Yes, by all means," the Prince said smoothly, even offering Anthony a bit of a smile. McGee suddenly felt a chill to see it, and marveled at the sense of ruthlessness such a tiny change of expression could bring. _Is _this_ what royalty means?_ he found himself wondering.

"I do hope you mean that literally, Sir." Gibbs' unexpected response brought Timothy right back out of his own thoughts, as he heard the distinct note of challenge about it, the reason for it still beyond McGee's grasp. The Prince appeared to have no such confusion, though, as his silent look of question bade Gibbs to continue, at which Gibbs added, "your request was that we determine who killed her."

McGee's quick eyes caught Anthony's start at Gibbs' words – only very brief, and certainly unnoticed by the Prince, but apparently seen by Gibbs, who seemed to respond to the look by speaking marginally faster, his voice ever so slightly louder, as if to prevent interruption. _As if to prevent Anthony's thoughts, which Gibbs must gleaned from Antony's reaction, from being voiced..._

"So from that request, and because you said that you _surmised_ that this was not an accidental death, it would seem that you offer no eye-witness to events who can say otherwise. No one to see her killed, and only a surmise about the nature of her death itself, suggests that at the very least we call upon a physician who can offer us his insights, from an examination of Lady Danforth's remains, about how and why she died."

The Prince's brow drew down into a frown, as he glanced from Gibbs to Anthony, then back again. "You have a certain doctor in mind." It was not a question.

"Dr. Donald Mallard. He is very skilled ... and very discrete. And, yes," Anthony added, knowing the reason for the man's glance to him, "the very same Dr. Mallard you may have seen at the opera or the theatre, on occasion in my company."

"He is an eccentric," the Prince said flatly, "and there are stories about that he communicates with the dead – or _tries_ to."

At that, wholly forgetting himself, McGee snorted softly, and three pair of decidedly unamused eyes swung over to demand the reason. Blinking a little with all the sudden attention, and deciding quickly the floor would not open up to allow him a quick and live-saving retreat, Timothy stammered toward Gibbs, embarrassed for his sudden lack of control, "well, S...Sir..." Knowing that Gibbs and Anthony would agree with his thoughts, McGee suddenly dared to turn to Battenburg, speaking to the prince for the first time that day as he offered his explanation as a sort of apology for his outburst. "_Sir _... indeed, he does speak to the dead ... in a manner of speaking. And after having first made the doctor's acquaintance I too heard such rumors, but ... he does so as a kindness to them, Sir, and not meaning to hold a true conversation at all. His examinations can be very ... personal .. .and he talks to them as he might have done when they were alive, as he might have done to put them at ease. He doesn't expect them to _hear_ him, Sir."

"Or answer him back?" The Prince narrowed his eyes at him, making Timothy think he was suddenly under a scrutiny he'd avoided while remaining silent. "I trust you _like_ this Dr. Mallard, Mr. McGee?"

An easy question, at least. "Indeed I do, Sir. A very kind and learned man."

"You would agree, then, with Mr. Anthony that he is discreet."

"Oh, yes, Sir. Very."

The Prince wavered another moment, and Timothy suddenly worried that his enthusiastic assurance of the doctor's discretion would lead to questions about how he could be so certain. McGee knew without a doubt it would not be in anyone's best interests to have those tales aired, given that even the very moment of their introduction involved the clandestine examination of his landlord's cooling body in a place to which they had not exactly been formally invited. Several of his subsequent meetings with the good doctor had been under equally ... _irregular_ ... circumstances. Still, after a few anxiety-producing moments of consideration, the prince relented. "Very well." He turned back first to Anthony, then Gibbs. "It is agreed that your Dr. Mallard may be consulted. How would you propose this be accomplished?"

"He will have to be brought here to examine her Ladyship." Anthony said.

"Here? No, that will not do," the Prince shook his head resolutely.

"It must be so," Gibbs spoke up again. "Dr. Mallard must see the body where it lies." As the prince drew a breath to speak, Gibbs added levelly, "even though she was not killed here."

McGee blinked his surprise, looking quickly to Anthony to see if he also had been taken as unaware. Yet Anthony's response to Gibbs' words was not one of surprise, but reflected his own intense scrutiny of the Prince, as if to see the other man's reaction to the news. At that, McGee turned to the Prince as well, and saw only the slightest smile at Gibbs' words. After a moment of silence, the Prince then nodded once, seemingly in a sort of concession, and said, "then it must be so. But I prefer to wait here with you, so I may be informed as you work. I can supply a carriage. Perhaps one of you might go fetch the doctor?"

Gibbs' eyes barely had moved his way before Timothy spoke up. "I can go, Sir. Your ... er, _Anthony's_ investigation would benefit more from your presence than mine."

"Then we will get you a carriage immediately, Mr. McGee." The Prince's words were again clipped and authoritative. "You will need to impress upon the doctor – and all of you bear in mind – that your investigation must be quick. I will need to have your results within the next thirty-six hours."

"What?" Anthony thundered, his angry frustration returning full force after having been only calmed from his initial ire only a few minutes before.

"Thirty-six hours," the Prince repeated. "It is no matter if you cannot provide all the answers you would otherwise, but for our purposes, gentlemen, you will have thirty-six hours. When the ..."

"_Why?"_ Gibbs demanded once again.

The Prince looked back to the older man, his expression as untroubled as ever. "No reason that would effect your investigation," he said smoothly. "And while it is clear that you wish to debate this further, I would suggest you allow me to take Mr. McGee to the stables to find him a suitable carriage and allow him to start his journey to fetch Dr. Mallard. Even if the good doctor is willing to come at once, it may take up some of your valuable time for him to join us."

Gibbs simply glowered at the man, knowing he was right and but feeling the weight of complete and utter _wrongness_ about the whole affair – the affair, the power of this man and others behind the man who would control their actions for the next thirty six hours ... the gravity and complexities of what it would mean for Anthony – for all of them – if they were to refuse...

"Gibbs," Anthony spoke softly, bringing his employer's eyes back to him from his glare at the Prince. "For Lady Danforth ..." he shrugged in a request, lifting his hands in his own feelings of entrapment, words eluding him. After a moment, however, he looked back to the woman who lay before them in a sadly undignified state. Quietly, he managed, "I did not know her well, but she seemed a lovely woman, kind and quick witted; I never heard nor heard tell of a mean-spirited word from her or about her. She did not deserve to die," Anthony pressed. "Certainly, Sir – does she not deserve Ducky's assistance in learning who took her life?"

Gibbs' expression barely changed at all in the moments of silence between the men, but after only a few frightening seconds, Gibbs turned to McGee and tipped his chin toward the Prince. "Go to Ducky, McGee; explain that we have need of him immediately, that you aren't at liberty to discuss the matter but that all will be clear when he arrives."

"Yes, Sir; at once..." McGee made to go.

"Timothy ..." Gibbs stopped him, and added, "do assure him that Anthony and I are fine, that there's no threat or danger to us, but that time is of the essence, and that we must get started soon." Gibbs glanced back at Battenburg to explain, "he rarely tolerates our getting started without waiting for him."

Not waiting for the Prince to reply, Timothy replied, "of course, Sir."

The prince nodded curtly and said, "then we would best get you underway, Mr. McGee. Gentlemen, I will be only a moment." Without more, the Prince strode back toward the hall and, Timothy assumed, back the way they came. Timothy looked back to his employer in a quick, final question.

"Go, McGee," Gibbs tipped his chin toward the hallway. "And please have an eye towards Ducky's well-being, will you?"

"Yes, Sir!" McGee turned and followed the prince back through the dazzling rooms they had crossed, noticing far less now as his mind churned with all the implications, not the least of which was the sudden knowledge that Gibbs was entrusting _him_ to look out for the doctor, one of his few true friends. Not a word was said between them as the men made their way back through grand halls and humble ones, down backstairs and back out to the covered drive. They did not stop there, but crossed wide, green lawns and passed well-tended gardens, where the sounds and smells ahead confirmed for Timothy they were nearing the stables.

Following Battenburg closely as he stepped inside, McGee saw three stable hands leap to their feet at the prince's arrival, eyes only on him and not daring – or not bothering – to show the least curiosity about the stranger dragged along into their lair. "What have you ready for two passengers, Bradley?"

"The brougham, Sir, unless you prefer the clarance what just got back." the oldest of the three said immediately. "Both out and ready straightaway, whichever you like."

The prince glanced over at the smaller carriage, indeed all but at hand, a single horse standing by, as if poised to walk into harness, the stableman clearly under orders to have instant transportation available without notice. The brougham was as void of identifying marks as was the clarence, and nearly as well-appointed. "The brougham, then. Who is your driver?"

"McDonald, Sir."

"Indeed. A brother Scot, for the good doctor?" The Prince turned a wry glance to McGee as the groom quickly and deftly put the horse to its harness. As another man – a ginger haired man Timothy surmised was 'McDonald' – stepped from the trio toward them, Battenburg asked, "the doctor lives where, Mr. McGee?"

"In Sackville Street, Sir, off Picadilly."

Even before the driver's quick nod, the Prince acknowledged, "yes, I know the place. The Queen's own Dr. Snow lives in Sackville Street," the prince reminded the driver, to get another nod from him.

As the man scrambled up onto his place on the carriage, and the last buckles buckled on the gleaming leather harness, the Prince turned to McGee. "For the sake of your friends, if not your sovereign – do remember that this matter must not be spoken of to anyone until you bring Dr. Mallard safely back here. Do you understand, Mr. McGee?"

McGee nodded too quickly. "Yes, Sir."

"And I will do what I can to be made aware of your return, but if you find yourself waiting – do you recall the way to the sitting room we last left?"

McGee tried not to let his eyes pop too far out of his head at the implication – _I am to be allowed to wander around on my own to find them again?_ "Yes, Sir," he gulped.

"May I have your word that you will come straightaway to the sitting room then, where your companions will be waiting for you both?"

McGee realized with a chill that Anthony and Gibbs were now in the belly of the beast, and the unspoken reminder that their easy retreat could well be affected by his own actions in bringing Dr. Mallard to them without a curious side trip of his own around the ... the whatever it was, palace or not, where they waited. "Of course, Sir. As directly as I know how."

"Good man," the Prince unknowingly echoed Anthony's words to him earlier that morning. As he had not an hour ago, the Prince himself opened the carriage door for McGee. "Off you go, and shades in place again, if you will." And as McGee nodded in agreement, the carriage door was shut upon him again, and once more McGee found himself being borne off into the city, on an errand for the future King of England.

This time, left to his own devices, McGee spent less time worrying about the way than he had before, as this time he knew his destination. Without that concern or the active observations of Gibbs and Anthony to keep his mind engaged, McGee passed so much of the ride turning over all he'd seen and heard, and so energetically so, one thought to the next, that the carriage had stopped before he realized, and the driver had alighted to open the door for him, not speaking, but tipping his hat slightly for him as McGee clamored out of the carriage.

Timothy stood out in the street for the moment, staring up at Ducky's house, suddenly aware of the heavy burden he carried, bound as he was to keep all he knew secret from the man who could draw out one's deepest thoughts as he talked one's leg off at the same time. Deciding that with Ducky, he could not predict anything but must simply make his best decisions along the way, he stepped determinedly to the door to ring the bell.

The door was opened by the sweet-faced maid he had met on his handful of calls to the residence, and she bobbed a quick greeting. "Mr. McGee! Good morning." She stepped aside, but only at the door, so he might step across the threshold while stating his business. She was too polite to ask if he was expected, and likely too used to the doctor's other visitors to be surprised if he was not.

"Good morning, Miss Polly. Is Dr. Mallard in? I'm afraid he..."

"Timothy!"

At the sound of the distinctive voice, lifted in a heart-warming delight to see him, Timothy nonetheless felt a heart-stopping threat to his ability to keep the matter secret. For between her determined, brilliant mind and his weakness for her beauty, her wiles and her ways, this woman was more than a match for McGee's will, should she discover that he had secrets to be mined. He looked up to meet the wide smile and sparkling eyes, and took off his hat, smiling weakly.

"Miss Abigail..."

**To be continued...**

_A/N: I love the internet! Where else can you find such cool historical references in three minutes, sitting on your couch on a Saturday morning! All hail the Google! _


	6. Chapter 6

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur**_.

_A/N: Continuing thanks to those of you who have been following along, and a very special thanks to those who have taken the time to PM or review. You guys, as always, rock._

_Those of you in the path of Hurricane Irene – be safe!_

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 6**

Anthony watched Battenburg as he strode away, disappearing through the sitting room where they'd entered, and McGee, with his last words to Gibbs, as he hurried to follow. Even as their footsteps still echoed across the large room, Anthony turned back to Gibbs with an expression that was half-apology, half-plea.

"Sir..."

As he should have anticipated, Gibbs brushed away his yet-unvoiced protests as he came close enough to Anthony to speak without fear of being overheard. "We have only minutes before Battenburg returns, Anthony." He gestured around the room. "Is there anything more you can tell me about anyone or anything here that is best not said in his presence?"

Anthony hesitated only a moment before acknowledging the inevitable, that Gibbs would not be dissuaded from seeing things through in the matter, by his side if not in the lead, until what was to be done was done. He shook his head slightly, and took one long look back to Lady Danforth's body before he began to move methodically around the woman, looking for anything out of place or suggestive of what had befallen her. "Often in recent weeks she had been in the company of Prince Edward Albert, in his entourage," Anthony supplied as Gibbs crouched down for a closer look at the body between them, "although from my observations she was not ... one of the inner circle. Not yet." His eyes remained on the floor, the furniture, anywhere now but the still form. Seeing that Gibbs looked back to him in silent question, Anthony could offer only, "she seemed ... innocent ... of all that yet. Less jaded or ..." He hesitated again, in a sad, reflective tone not a common one for him. "More ... naive, somehow. As if she believed she was included simply for her wit or her own enjoyment of the stage." Unbidden, his eyes returned to her still form, face down across the dark red rug.

"Her husband was not a part of the 'entourage,' then?" Gibbs' words intruded quietly.

"No." With a deep breath, Anthony focused again to speak as dispassionately as he could. "Beyond a very few plays early on, I do not recall seeing Lord Danforth at any of the performances his wife attended – certainly none after she was included in the Prince's immediate company." He paused again, and added, his tone both reticent and angry, "from his Highness' attentions to Lady Margaret, Sir ... I believe he had every hope that he would be enjoying her intimate company quite soon. "

Gibbs sat back on his heels from his close inspection of the woman, looking up at Anthony. "What do you know about her husband?"

"Lord Charles?" Anthony shrugged, shook his head. "Maybe twenty years older than his wife, a widower before he married her. I know only the most general of the gossip about him, Sir, and mostly from the tongues wagging when Lady Margaret first took her seat next to the Prince for that evening's fare, but he is generally thought of as bland and uncomplicated."

"One prone to anger if cuckolded?" Gibbs asked bluntly.

Anthony considered, but shook his head slowly. "One loyal to the throne?" he allowed. "Maybe one so traditional that he would see the Monarch coveting his wife in the same way he would see the Monarch appreciating his faithful service at the Foreign Office?"

Gibbs grunted at that. "Another reason that marriage is over-rated, Anthony," he murmured, then stood, looking across the room to nod toward a door in the far wall. "Another entrance, or another room?" he asked. Anthony immediately crossed the room and, turning back to Gibbs and drawing out his handkerchief with a flourish, used it to cover the knob before turning it. "For Miss Abigail," he said wryly.

Gibbs returned the smirk, having been privy to only part of the most recent, enthusiastic bubbling of Dr. Mallard's ward as she waved her newest text before them. He'd heard enough of it to know that she believed it provided even more support for one of her pet theories, that not only were fingerprints unique, person to person, but that they could help prove their owner's guilt – or innocence – when properly identified. Anthony hadn't yet been convinced, but from his brotherly affection for Abigail, her insistence that they should do nothing to disturb in any way the fingerprints existing at a place they were investigating – and from his own vested interest in not becoming anyone's suspect – he had been minding more closely than ever what he touched as he worked. And now, opening the door with his handkerchief thrown over its knob, he peered through, disappeared inside for a few moments, then stepped back in the room to say, "a wardrobe, Sir; the size of a small room itself, with a vanity and dressing table as well, but no separate exit. Nothing appears at first glance to be out of the ordinary."

At Gibbs' nod, Anthony closed the door again and, rather than crossing back to him, continued his efficient sweep of the room, slowing only once or twice to take special note of something before moving on. What he did not see was the small, settled look of approval on Gibbs' features as he turned back to his own observations without having to direct his protégée what to do next.

After a few moments of silent examination, Gibbs never moving too far from the body or the rug where she lay, he asked, "Is there any reason to think that Lady Danforth was in residence here, that this was a room she would have been provided for her use?"

Anthony stopped, looking around again at nothing in particular as he considered Gibbs' words. Narrowing his eyes, he finally shook his head slowly, "no, Sir. At least, if in residence, not this room."

"Why?" At Gibbs' question, his second turned to look at him warily, as if he feared his impressions were suddenly suspect. The older man shook his head slightly as if to deny such thoughts, then explained, quietly, "I am not the one who grew up in a home like this one, Tony. Why do you say not this room?"

Anthony's eyes carried both his initial relief and the strain from present events that he was, overall, hiding fairly well. "Well," he began, walking again around the sitting room, his eyes running over everything in a second and third sweep, "first of all, there is no bedchamber here, and a guest's suite would have at least one attached. Also, there is no sign of a trunk or valise in the wardrobe, and no toiletries at the vanity. A woman of her standing would not be able to spend even one night in the home of royalty without at least three changes of clothing, and the shoes for them, and evening bags, and of course night clothing and make-up and all the things for her hair..."

Gibbs looked up from the entryway floor he'd been studying to fix Anthony with a glare, which had its effect of hurrying the younger man to his point.

"...and third ... I believe if we ask we'll find that this is the private sitting room of Princess Alexandra."

Even under the circumstances, Gibbs felt the warmth of pride rise in him yet again at the younger man. Just by being a keen observer in their past engagements, Anthony was developing into a fine investigator in his own right, incorporating the lessons of those cases with his own unique background and experience. And in this, Gibbs mused, Anthony's own history would allow him insights that neither he nor the others in his service could offer. "And how came you to _that_ decision, Anthony, in these few minutes?"

"Well, Sir, the photographs of the children, after all ... the quality of the appointments and fittings of the room ... and the size of the room itself, given where we are."

"Which is where, Tony, do you know?"

At the question, and the slight testiness with which he asked, Anthony turned back to his mentor in surprise. "Of course, Sir; you do not?" Before the growl could come to confirm what was apparent in his expression, Anthony said quickly, "this is Marlborough House, Sir – the primary residence of the Prince and Princess of Wales."

Anthony watched his mentor as he registered the implications and looked around the room yet again with that knowledge in mind. Having seen nothing out of the ordinary in the room beyond the body of the Lady Margaret stretched out there, Anthony felt another surge of frustration not only at her death, but also at the circumstances under which they all now found themselves, apparently due to little more than his own frequent nights at the theatre. "What does Battenburg expect us to find in thirty six hours?" he blurted, almost rhetorically. "How can he expect our best work when he answers no questions and then puts a time limit to things as well? what can he expect us to find in thirty six hours?"

With a deep breath, Gibbs turned back to Anthony, his expression grim. "Maybe the more disturbing question is – what happens at the _end_ of thirty six hours?"

**_xoxo xoxo xoxo xoxo xoxo xoxo xoxo xoxo_**

So focused was McGee on his mission to collect the doctor, and still a bit dazed by all the extraordinary happenings that had interrupted his breakfast that morning, it had simply not occurred to McGee that the lovely Miss Abigail Mallard might be at home as well. He had not yet been tested in the ways of keeping a secret from _her_, and it suddenly dawned on him that such a thing might be just as hard as hiding his thoughts from Gibbs himself.

"Miss Abigail, I ... I..." McGee stammered, then swallowed and shook himself a bit, inside. "I was not expecting the pleasure of seeing you this morning. And no, it is not that I have come calling – or, well, _yes_, I have come calling, as here I am, but..."

Her eyes went big as saucers as she gasped, "McGee, is someone hurt? Are Gibbs and Tony safe?"

"Yes, they are fine, Miss Abigail, but we have ..."

Immediately Abigail relaxed with his assurances, and as her eyes danced merrily to see that she had once again upended Gibb's young man, she reached out to take his hand and pull him along to the parlour. "Then come along, Timothy, and sit with me; Ducky is with someone at the moment, so even if your business is with him and not with me, it will be another few minutes, I think, before he is free. Is this a new case?" Her eyes took him in for only a very few moments before they grew again, but this time with excitement. "Oh, it _is_, and Gibbs has sent _you_ to fetch Ducky, which is wonderful, Timothy, as he usually comes himself or sends Anthony, because when he involves Ducky in a case he wants to be sure there is no danger to him and therefore wants Ducky with someone he trusts ... don't you see, by sending you, Gibbs has as much said he trusts you with his friend's safety and from Gibbs, that is no small compliment."

At Abigail's enthusiastic praise, the fact that he had been chosen more likely because he was the least valuable to the immediate investigation faded somewhat at the thought that Gibbs had nonetheless shown confidence in him. His sense of urgency had faded along with it – but only for the briefest of moments. Again shaking his thoughts back to business, McGee pressed,"Miss Abigail, no one hopes more than I that you're right, and that Gibbs has that sort of confidence in me – but for now it is of the utmost importance that Dr. Mallard come with me, straight away. Can he not be interrupted?"

"Well, I suppose he can, but you told me Gibbs and Anthony are well. Is someone else injured?"

"No, but ..."

"Then it will only be another very few minutes, Timothy; I am most certain of it." Abigail settled into the cushions, sweetly stubborn and clearly bound to make him wait. "In the meantime – what is it brings you for Ducky this time? Tell me of this new assignment of yours." She beamed at him, beautifully, hoping for the latest intrigue.

"Not ... not an assignment, exactly ... or, well, yes, I suppose it is, but..." Timothy squirmed, realising he needed far more practice at dissembling if he were to remain in Gibbs' employ, especially for those moments he needed to engage in subterfuge to obtain information, or to pass himself off as someone he was not ... or to avoid telling everything he knew to the engaging Miss Mallard. "An acquaintance of Anthony's," he finally seized upon an idea, "had need of some advice, and..."

"...and Ducky is needed. And not for someone ill – so for a _body?_" Her voice had dropped to a dangerously conspiratorial level, and her green eyes had widened even more. "_And_ an acquaintance of _Anthony's?_ Ooooh, Timothy, tell me, who is this acquaintance? For all his blather and love of conversation, Anthony is so loathe to talk about himself or his friends or family anyone outside of our little group." Abigail's imagination began running several moments ahead of her words, and she suddenly gasped, a grave look of concern taking her over, "Anthony himself is not involved in this _body_'s demise, is he? McGee, Tony would suffer the gravest torment before he would _ever_ harm someone without cause. Surely the body was not someone _he_ killed..."

"No, Abby, Anthony did not kill her," he tried to soothe. "Of that I am certain."

With that, Abigail sat back for a moment, her brow clearing with McGee's assurance, but her expressive features shifted in the next moment to a small, sweet smile as she looked back to him. "So it if was not Anthony who killed this woman," she asked innocently, "who was it? His ... _'acquaintance?'_"

McGee groaned. In one small sentence, after only a few questions, he'd all but confessed that not only was there a death, but that it was likely a wrongful killing, and a female victim at that. With such a quick defeat, there was nothing left for him to do but seek her mercy. "Miss Abigail, I beg you, ask me nothing else; Gibbs has sworn me to say nothing and any confidence I may have won from him will be stolen back just as quickly if I say anything more."

"I shan't tell him anything you tell me, you have my word," she began.

"No matter," he shook his head firmly, "for you know as well as I that Gibbs will know what was said as readily as if he sat here with us. There is nothing that escapes his attention," McGee moaned. "He must know even this very moment that I've told you this much."

"But it's not as if I'm a stranger, Timothy," Abby urged, "you know full well I am included in as many of his intrigues as ..."

The sound of men's voices suddenly spilled into the room from the hallway as an inner door opened, and Timothy was never happier to be interrupted in his time with Abigail as he was at that moment.

"This is certainly an honour, Doctor," came an enthusiastic, unfamiliar male voice, "and I look forward to it."

"Nonsense, my lad, your interest is admirable, and I am pleased to hear that you wish to augment your education in this way." Dr. Mallard's voice was unmistakable. "I look forward to your participation."

The voices neared and, looking up expectantly, Timothy saw Dr. Mallard appear in the hallway with a young, dark-haired, bespectacled man, looking a bit gawky and grinning widely. At their appearance, Abby stood immediately and approached them, causing the younger man's smile to grow even wider, if that were even possible. With that, however, Timothy also stood, flushing with a sudden heat to see Abigail smile so winsomely as she turned her attention on the interloper.

Fortunately for them all, Ducky spoke before any of the others did. "Timothy! What a pleasure to see you. Are you here to see me?"

"Yes, Doctor," he managed.

"Well, then." He looked between the younger men, then realized, "ah, my apologies. Timothy, this is James Palmer. Mr. Palmer is a medical student and the son of a dear friend. Young Jimmy has an interest in some of the post-mortem findings about which I recently published, and he will be observing here from time to time as his studies at university allow. Mr. Palmer, this is Timothy McGee. Mr. McGee is quite the inventor, you know."

"Oh! I've never met an inventor before." Palmer held out his hand enthusiastically, and McGee could only hope that the man was as guileless – and hapless – as he seemed, as such a man would be less likely, he hoped, to hold Abigail's attention for long.

"Nor I a medical student," McGee mustered a smile for the man as his offered hand was pumped energetically by the beaming student.

"Mr. McGee, I am all yours," Ducky announced. "Abigail, would you show our Mr. Palmer the door, please?" After more pleasantries, Abby managed to lead the medical student out of the parlour to the hall, and Ducky turned to McGee to speak quietly, "Timothy? _Timothy_," he repeated, managing on his second try to wrest McGee's attention back from his ward and to the reason for his visit. "Surely that brougham at the curb is not yours..."

"No, but it is waiting for us." McGee remembered himself and, remembering also his haste, said quickly, "Gibbs and Anthony are waiting for us. Time is of the essence." At the doctor's worried frown, he added, "they are fine, Ducky; they are on a new assignment. But our time is limited."

"I'll need my bag, then, I suppose?" Dr. Mallard turned to hurry back into his consultation suite, gesturing for Timothy to follow him.

"Er ... yes. No one is injured," Timothy added quickly, "but ... there is a body," he added in a whisper.

"Indeed. Well," the doctor turned to his bag, removing some items and replacing them with others. "Do we yet know how much access I will have, and if we will be able to remove it afterward for additional study here?"

"Uh ... well, you will have some privacy and access where she is now, but beyond that, I do not know. I suspect that may be all, but that is only my guess. And ..." Wary of doing so but aware that it might make a difference to the doctor's preparations, McGee added, "Gibbs said the woman was not killed where she now lies."

_"What?"_ The doctor turned to him, immediately angry. "The body, _moved_? How far? From where to where?" At McGee's helpless shrug, Dr. Mallard turned back to the bag, yanking it closed as he fussed, "how can it be that people these days are not only willing to take a life, but then to treat the body of the departed as poorly as they did the life itself? I mean, _really!_" He turned back to McGee, who stood blinking at what he worried was his second major slip of the tongue in almost as few minutes, and almost as immediately, the doctor relented as quickly he'd angered. "But as _you_ did not move the body, Timothy, my railing at you is uncalled for."

"As far as you know." Both men turned at the distinctively raspy voice, and saw Abigail in the doorway, grinning expectantly. "I don't suppose I could be of any assistance there as well?"

"Alas, my dear, Timothy arrived in a brougham. There will be room only for the two of us," Ducky offered gently, adding, as he saw that she drew breath to protest, "and I know you are too much of the lady now to suggest that a third person might be fitted in as well."

She pouted prettily, if not a bit insincerely. "One of these days you will find that I may be of use at the scene of the crime and not only hidden away in the laboratory afterward."

McGee blinked at that, looking at her in surprise. "What 'laboratory?'" he asked. He knew that Abigail had an interest in his inventions and in her guardian's test tubes and textbooks, and had even sit in with Gibbs and the rest of them as they chewed on a mystery or two _... but a laboratory, a real one? Not impossible, but for a gentlewoman, even she ... truly, Abigail?_

"Timothy – time? Of the essence, you said?" As Dr. Mallard lifted his well-worn bag and nodded toward the hall, he saw McGee shake his head a bit and move toward the doorway, taking his leave of Abigail. The doctor then followed behind, stopping to look at Abby affectionately. He leant up to place a kiss on her forehead and, stepping back, said kindly, "maybe next time, my dear."

"You always say that, Ducky," she smiled wistfully.

"Indeed? So I do." As the doctor spoke to his ward, McGee stopped in the hall, turning to watch them as he waited. "Remember that Gibbs is a bit old fashioned, Abigail, especially in his need to protect the fairer sex," the kindly older man said, "and no matter how aware he may be of what you have seen and heard here and elsewhere, he still feels the need to protect you from what he believes are the world's harshest blows. Is that so hard to understand?"

"Not to understand, perhaps, but to accept? It is the broadest misapprehension of mankind in general, Ducky, that women need protection from those things men bear. Why, you yourself have said more than once that women can withstand..."

"My dear," Ducky interrupted gently, and gestured toward McGee. "May we have this discussion later?"

Abigail glanced over to McGee and offered a small smile of apology. "I _am_ sorry, Timothy." She came close to scoop her arm through his and walk him to the front door, Ducky close behind. "Hurry on, then, you two – and Timothy," she added, a coquettish quirk to her smile. "If you _do_ hurry back – maybe I'll let you see my lab."

As McGee stood in the doorway, feeling a blush of anticipation coloring his cheeks, the doctor brushed past him and on down the steps. "Come along, then, McGee," the good doctor called from the walkway to the waiting carriage. "If you dillydally much longer, that offer just might expire."

_To be continued..._


	7. Chapter 7

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur**_.

_A/N: Any comments, complaints or questions welcome, as always. If it's possible to be objective about one's own writing, I haven't figured out how! So hearing your thoughts are a huge help!_

_This week it's Tropical Storm Lee with the overactive waterworks – and over and over and overactive! Be safe out there! _

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 7**

After his initial rounds of the room, Anthony reached into his coat to draw out the small diary he kept at hand, along with the bit of pencil he kept tucked inside with which to make a few notes and sketches when they worked. At least five minutes had passed since Prince Louis had escorted Timothy out to find him a coach and driver, and Anthony took a moment to compliment himself silently on his ability thus far to remain composed enough to make use of those minutes – although the presence of their too silent companion, Lady Margaret Danforth, in this place, and with _this_ host – made him wonder how he managed. _Whether or not I would have wanted Gibbs pulled into this matter, even had he done nothing else today he has stayed me from being either a horse's ass, or an avenging sword, or a blubbering fool_ – all of which he'd felt stirring in him at one point or another since their arrival.

Anthony spared the smallest glance back to his mentor, who had finally broken off from his close examination of the body to gaze around at the room generally, no doubt wondering, as he himself had, what to make of Lady Margaret being left here as she had. _A message, from the killer?_ If so – why, and to whom? A message of sorts seemed most likely to Anthony: Lady Margaret's body most definitely had not been hidden, and the room was not situated along any sort of path to another place, making it unlikely that the killer simply left her behind upon suddenly being unable to take her further. And she lay face down, her face tipped very slightly to one side, and her limbs and clothing were adjusted just so, as if arranged, not at all as if dragged or abandoned in haste.

_...as if the killer wanted it to appear she'd died right here?_ Tony found himself shaking his head slightly, discounting the thought. _Not unless this place holds some special significance for the killer and his audience..._

"Tony, we will want to speak to those persons who may know of anyone with reason to kill Lady Danforth," Gibbs spoke quietly, still looking around at the room. "Reasons to do with her, of course, but from what you have said, reasons also that her death would mean something to the men in her life – _all_ of them." Gibbs looked back to him. "It may be easier to say after Dr. Mallard has a look, but at this point we cannot know whether this were a crime of passion or of premeditation."

"Because of where and how she lies," Anthony nodded, the circumstances preventing him from taking much pride in the fact that his thoughts had followed the same path Gibbs' had. "But it's an odd sort of thing, Sir, isn't it? It is possible that the room might have significance for the killer, whatever the reasoning, but off center, on the floor?" Gibbs waited as Tony looked back at the body, thinking, then came back around to bend down for a closer look. In a moment he looked back to Gibbs. "On the rug, Sir..." re realized, "because of the dark red color? To hide any blood?"

"Or other bodily fluids. Possibly. But I see no indication that any have seeped away from the body, have you?"

Tony looked along the body where he stood, then walked around to the other side, suspecting that while Gibbs would have seen anything that might be seen, the older man was relying on his second's own crisp vision to spot any small traces that his once hawk-like vision might not now catch. That done, Anthony straightened and shook his head. "No, Sir." He considered a moment. "Just in case, then?"

He could tell that Gibbs wasn't convinced, but the older man said, discounting nothing yet, "we'll know more when Ducky examines her."

Anthony considered him, looking at Gibbs now as closely as he had looked at the room around him. "But you don't think he will find anything. Nothing to cause blood or other stains there."

Gibbs' expression shifted only slightly, a change few would notice and fewer understand. But Anthony had learned much at Gibbs' side, and more and more often now read the signs of Gibbs' inner thoughts as easily as Dr. Mallard read the marks and mars on a body to determine how one died. And Gibbs was bothered by what they found there – where they found the Lady and how, the myriad reasons a killer would leave the body just so, and the meanings – or lack of them – that could be involved.

With the knowledge that Gibbs was as unsettled by these things as he was, Anthony frowned. "If not for that reason, then..."

"Too many possibilities," Gibbs mused, "especially if we are dealing with someone who is above average intelligence, with unlimited resources, with certain ... protections ... not available to the public at large." Anthony knew Gibbs was watching him closely, judging if he understood the implications in all they had seen so far and probably wondering as well if his assistant could remain focused and detached if the worst were borne out.

Anthony looked back to the woman before them, his thoughts flitting rapidly from his own past to the present before him. No matter the advantages and luxuries of wealth and position, no matter the 'protections' the upper class and royalty might enjoy, they had their own dark side, as Anthony himself knew even better than Gibbs might suspect. In that very moment, in the face of the finest things money and power could obtain, it occurred to Anthony that there was no cravat or topper so fine, nor horse so sleek, that it could come anywhere close to the comfort and pride he gained regularly in but a passing nod of approval from Gibbs for a job well done.

Unconsciously, Anthony shifted to stand straighter, his own expression carrying the sober, determined look of an investigator. All traces of the theatre-loving, roguish, well-born gentleman of leisure were gone as he looked to Gibbs. "And for just those reasons, Sir, Lady Margaret deserves our very best efforts."

Gibbs nodded, his steady gaze softening slightly. With a sigh, he tipped his chin toward the diary in Anthony's hands. "You've made note of the room, and the placement of things in it as well as Lady Danforth?"

"Yes, Sir; and the measurements, as best I could pace out." He frowned down at his scribbles, mentally cataloguing what else he might add as he thought over all they had seen and heard that morning: while there was relative wealth of time to speculate later, for now, Battenburg would return any moment, and any privacy he might have with Gibbs soon gone. "Sir," he suddenly remembered. "You deliberately misquoted Battenburg's words back to him."

Gibbs glanced toward him, lifting an eyebrow and, Anthony thought, maybe showing the faintest expression of pride that he'd recognized it. "While I am gratified that you noticed, Anthony, I can't help but wonder if the Prince did."

"More and more, Sir, I am under the impression that he misses very little." Anthony's eyes narrowed as he reconsidered Gibbs' words. "Do you really think that..."

A sudden flick of Gibbs' hand silenced him, and Anthony too heard the sound of steps in the hall outside the room where they stood. Gibbs tipped his head in a clear direction that he get back to his tasks, and, as Anthony turned back to the room's perimeter and his diary entries, Battenburg entered the room. With a quick look to each man, and clearly assuming they'd conferred in his absence, the Prince sighed. "Well, gentlemen," he began, his tone – and demeanor – seeming more direct and familiar now, with just the two more seasoned investigators there. "What have you discovered thus far?"

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxo_

Their carriage had barely gotten underway when Dr. Mallard fixed Timothy with a serious, appraising look and said gravely, "I don't believe I have seen you this unsettled about an assignment, Timothy, since you involved us in the death of your landlord. Is this a personal matter for you?"

McGee blinked in some surprise, both the doctor's words and his own feeling of nervousness excitement confirming for him that the good doctor had a point. He shook his head quickly. "No, Ducky – it's just that ... well, you will see for yourself soon enough."

"What will I see, my boy? What do we know about the deceased?"

"Ducky, I'm sorry, but I was told I wasn't supposed to tell anyone _anything_ about any of this..."

"Nonsense, they wouldn't have meant _me,_" Dr. Mallard protested, "after all, that is what we're about now, is it not, your fetching me to assist in the matter?"

McGee was actually relieved to have been given the directive. Even if he had believed that the Prince didn't want him speaking with _any_one at all, including Ducky, Timothy was relatively confident that Gibbs would not mean for him to keep the doctor in the dark. Certainly both Gibbs and Anthony would have told Dr. Mallard what they'd learned of events thus far, and both likely to expect Timothy to do the same. But a recitation of the facts, even as limited as those known to Timothy at the moment, would mean he'd be remembering the evidence once again, such as it was, and even an unseasoned investigator like himself would be thinking over again the things he was thinking – _about the Prince of Wales!_ McGee most assuredly didn't want to revisit those thoughts, not liking the implications one bit, so if he could rely on an order to keep his peace, and that order let him stick his head in the sand for another few minutes, then he was their man for it. That being decided for himself, he folded his arms and tried his best to look as certain of himself as Gibbs always managed to do. "I am sorry, Ducky. I was given a specific order not to tell _anyone._"

Dr. Mallard looked closely at the youngest of Gibbs' assistants and saw that the man was indeed at sixes and sevens with the matter. Relenting kindly – after all, it would take only moments for Gibbs or even Anthony to apprise him of what they knew, as always – the doctor settled back into the luxurious leather cushions and nodded, accepting the response for what it was. "Well then, you're doing well to carry out your instructions, Timothy, always a wise choice if you were not instructed precisely how far those instructions were to be followed. Can you at least tell me how long a ride we have ahead?"

McGee had been so deep in thought on his way to the doctor's house he could only guess from his knowledge of London's streets, rather than offer an informed estimate from his ride to the Mallard home. "Probably fifteen minutes or so, maybe less."

"Well then, I suppose I can keep my curiosity at bay for fifteen minutes." The good doctor observed his companion for another moment and, feeling a need to ease the younger man's nerves a bit, cast about for a topic of conversation that might allow just that. "You know, it was unfortunate that we were in such a rush to leave, Timothy. It might have done you some good to make a better acquaintance of Mr. Palmer, the young man whom you met this morning. The two of you are close to the same age, and he has lived here in London all his life. I daresay it would be well for you to meet some other young people your age, those who have a more – traditional – lifestyle than the one you have now with Gibbs. Although..." Dr. Mallard's brow furrowed a moment as he considered, "Mr. Palmer's father is a brilliant man and a great doctor. I am given to understand that his son is quite bright as well, and he took a very early, keen interest in his father's work. But as a medical student himself, he's shown a particular interest in post-mortem studies ... some have even gone so far as to find it a bit ... _peculiar_, I'm afraid. What I'm certain is just a familiarity borne of his years at his father's side, as his father allowed him some access to his work, apparently has surfaced as a tendency to speak up in his classes with probing questions and good insight – but with rather a lack of perception as to how it sounds to those not similarly enlightened. It has served only to make him a thorn in the side of some of the less open-minded lecturers, and the butt of the other students' unkind attention."

McGee's initial, rather unfocused attention on Ducky's story sharpened with the doctor's words, both for their confirmation that the medical student might soon talk himself right out of Abigail's interested attention – or even deeper into it – and for their unsettling reminder of being one of those boys whose interest and proficiency in school marked him as a bit of an oddity. He suddenly felt an empathy with the bespectacled student, assuring himself that the man would therefore most certainly become quite a wonderful doctor, before remembering that the man also therefore might make too fitting a companion for his lovely Miss Abby...

Dr. Mallard was continuing, "it well may be, Timothy, that in this case you would be the better companion for him than he for you, as far as helping a young neophyte negotiate the ways of London society." The doctor chuckled, almost sadly. "I suspect our Mr. Palmer has spent too much time with his doting parents and governesses, who naturally were deeply impressed with his academic interest in his father's profession, and too little time with companions his own age. I realize that the both of you are now young men, and needn't be thrown together to be playmates as you might have been as schoolboys – but I do hope you might take an afternoon or two with him." Dr. Mallard sighed. "His father is an old and dear friend, and, quite frankly, one to whom I owe a rather large debt due to one of Gibbs' adventures not all that long before you joined us. The senior Dr. Palmer is hopeful that not only will Jimmy's afternoons in my office appease his fixation to learn more about the dead, but that he can have some time in conversation with Abigail and her friends. Dr. Palmer is enough of a diagnostician to see that his son could benefit from treatment ... but is at a loss to know just the right cure."

"I would be happy to visit with Mr. Palmer, Ducky," McGee answered aloud, as his thoughts added silently, _and to be there at Abigail's side any time Mr. Palmer seeks her out for 'conversation.' _

"Thank you, Timothy," the doctor said, his smile a satisfied one. "Now then," he allowed his smile to tease a bit as he glanced around the interior of their sleek carriage, unable to resist the urge to demonstrate his own investigative powers to Gibbs' youngest apprentice. "I don't suppose you're any less sworn to secrecy about why we find ourselves in Princess Alexandra's brougham, are you, my lad?"

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxo_

Gibbs turned to the Prince. "Thus far, we have discovered little, other than the fact that there is nothing else to discover here – unless, of course, Dr. Mallard determines something from the body."

"Or we are able to observe more once she is moved," Anthony added, coming near to stand shoulder to shoulder with Gibbs. "We will need to speak with those at last night's dinner party. And the servants, all of them."

At the united front before him, Battenburg drew a deep breath and shook his head slightly. "I'm afraid that is impossible, gentlemen. I'm sure you can understand how sensitive such a matter can be."

"If what you want is to have this murder covered up, there are easier ways to go about it, your _Highness_." This time it was Gibbs who spoke in sudden angry frustration, the twist of sarcasm that colored the man's title completing his accusation. "The law defining homicide is not limited by the status of the persons involved..."

"Gibbs..." Anthony cautioned. He'd seen, if Gibbs had not, that Battenburg had approached them on his return with a more open, candid manner than he had at any time that morning, and at Gibbs' accusation, that openness had been quickly replaced with the first sign he had shown them of the anger of which he was capable – the sort of anger that could banish citizens from their homeland, call armies to war ... and order executions that would never be prosecuted.

Whether it was the cautionary tone in Anthony's voice or something in his expression, Battenburg drew back slightly, and Gibbs would reflect later that there must be some ineffable spark between them, maybe Battenburg recognizing some traces of nobility in Tony the way he himself could recognize a military man, no matter how long after his service. At the moment, however, even though his anger, Gibbs registered that Anthony had somehow managed to calm the moment in one mere syllable. He bit his tongue to wait for Battenburg's response, and watched closely as the man paused to consider his own words. "That is true, Mr. Gibbs," he nodded, finally. "But it is not why you were called." As Gibbs drew breath to ask the obvious, the prince continued, evenly, "we would like to know what you are able to discover about Lady Margaret's death."

Anthony spoke quickly as well, before Gibbs could say more. "And surely you understand, your Highness, that when our hands are tied by limiting our access to your staff or refusing to tell us who was in attendance at last night's dinner, you limit what can be discovered."

It was at that moment Gibbs anger shifted so palpably that Anthony could feel it as it did. He glanced quickly to his mentor to see the blue eyes widen in realization, and a smile curl one side of his lip. "And that's just what he wants of us, Anthony," Gibbs said, his eyes never leaving Battenburg's. "Prince Louis wants to know what can be managed by those of us who may be less willing to accept his limitations at face value." He stared at the Prince for long moments, a small, cynical laugh now lifting his voice. "And just how far those limitations may be stretched in thirty six hours."


	8. Chapter 8

_**Disclaimer:**__ NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur._

_**A/N:**__ Sorry for the delay in updating; real life intervened. Once again, thanks to everyone who has commented. Reviews are chocolate chip cookies for the soul. _

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 8**

The rest of the ride back to Gibbs and the others was passed with Dr. Mallard spinning another one of his tales and Timothy listening with only half an ear, keenly on guard for anything more that might befall them that morning. He didn't know if he should expect any dangers along the way, and while he tried telling himself that Gibbs would never have sent _him_ if Ducky truly might be at risk, Gibbs own words to look after the doctor remained in his ears, and Abigail's urging that Gibbs sent him to keep the older man safe filled him with purpose. If it was all more than just kind flattery, he wanted to be ready to live up to Gibbs' – and Abigail's – trust in him.

McGee had been flustered when the doctor had recognized so readily that their carriage belonged to Princess Alexandra, and his surprised response was all Dr. Mallard needed to confirm he'd been right. The longer that Donald Mallard had known Gibbs, the more he had come to expect the unexpected, and the rather colorful and exciting addition of Mr. Anthony to the mix had certainly done nothing to change things. Still, finding oneself ferried in a royal carriage on some secret mission might have been be one of the more unexpected moments to date of his partnership with his enigmatic friend, and despite the animated yarn he was spinning for the young and clearly rattled Mr. McGee, Dr. Mallard's curiosity had him alert and, although feeling a respectful concern for the royal family, admittedly eager to discover what lay ahead of them that morning.

Their trip was not a long one and, nearly bounding out of the carriage with the step of a man half his age, the doctor did not wait for McGee to climb out before he was peering around the covered drive, and even striding out toward the gardens beyond the shielding shrubbery.

"Dr. Mallard!" Horrified of losing the doctor to his too-inquisitive detour, McGee hurried to catch up with him, visions of the wrath of the Prince and the Crown and _Gibbs_ leaving him breathless. "Please – we've been given the strictest of directives..."

But the man had stopped in the garden and, having turned about in a circle to view the nearby buildings and now their destination itself, faced McGee with a sobering and now stern expression. "This is Marlborough House, is it not?"

McGee blinked and stammered a little at the sudden change of demeanor. "I ... I don't know ..."

"I am not an idiot or a fool, Timothy! This is Marlborough House, and the Princess's carriage, and if there is more that I ..."

"Dr. Mallard, on my life, sir, I don't know the name of the place!" Timothy insisted quickly, his voice still hushed for fear of discovery. "We were summoned at breakfast and carried away in a coach ourselves, and Gibbs and Anthony are still inside, and there is a prince..."

Dr. Mallard's flare of irritation subsided just as quickly when he saw that the lad truly had not known, apparently, the place they'd come, or possibly even the significance of its name. "A prince?" he asked, his tone softer now. "The Prince of Wales?"

The younger man shook his head quickly. "No, sir – Prince Louis of Battenburg. But ... he's ... it's..." Timothy was coming to the realization that with all he'd seen and heard that morning he was still woefully unable to puzzle out exactly what had happened or what this Prince had to do with the awful business with Lady Danforth. "Please, Ducky, they need you, and quickly," he finally managed. "We have been given a deadline."

The doctor managed a sigh and small smile for McGee and patted his arm before turning back toward the entry. "Of course, Timothy. And my apologies for jumping to conclusions." He gestured for McGee to proceed him. "Shall we?"

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxo_

At Gibbs' words, Anthony turned back to the Prince, waiting to see if the man confirmed Gibbs' suspicions. As before, he gave nothing away, but did not seem offended by the accusation, so Anthony spoke up. "So if my employer is not wrong, Sir, you will likely tell us nothing of events past what we can see for ourselves here?"

To their surprise, Battenburg seemed to actually mull over the thought, and finally said. "For the most part. But if you wish to ask your questions there may be some that I can answer."

Anthony jumped in at once. "We need a list of those who were at the dinner last night, even if we are obliged not to speak with them." As the other man hesitated, Anthony prodded, "at the very least, we need to know if the Lady Danforth was an invited guest. And if not, how she came to be here the morning after. If she was at the dinner, was Lord Danforth here as well? Or was he even invited?"

"Does Lord Danforth even know his wife lies here, dead?" Gibbs glared at the Prince.

Finally, the Prince moved, nearly imperceptibly, to say, "no. He has not been told. Beyond those in your group, only one other person other than myself knows of her death."

"The killer?" Anthony's eyes flashed – and immediately Gibbs understood what he was asking.

As did the Prince, who turned to the man calmly and, his tone suggesting that Anthony came dangerously close an unspoken truth, said "one other person beside myself who knows she is dead, of whom I am aware, _other_ than the killer."

"Who found her?" Gibbs pressed.

The Prince wavered, then his gaze wavered slightly for the first time. "I did."

Both men considered him, unsure what to make of the response, but he did not let them dwell on it long. "Gentlemen ... I will not provide you with a guest list, at least not yet," he decided, returning to Anthony's first questions. "That too may come at a later time."

"And this room? Will you tell us whose it is? Or better, let us have a plan of the house showing the rooms."

"Given those who live in this house," Battenburg turned back to Anthony at his question, "we do not provide information about the private rooms, as these are. Such information, if spread abroad, could result in security concerns for the Prince and his family."

Gibbs nodded at the responses, once again, clearly not surprised. "Then let us be about it, Anthony," he grumbled. "One more time around the room we _are_ allowed to view."

Anthony caught his very slight head movement, and answered with one of his own before speaking. "I will complete my measurements, Sir," he replied, knowing full well that Gibbs had seen he'd completed them several minutes before.

Gibbs nodded, and the pair moved back through the room, in different directions at first, to work their way to the far corner of the room. In only a few minutes, however, they were within arm's length of the other, and slowly, as they worked, passed several short notes each to the other about what possible actions they could take next.

_xoxoxoxoxoxoxo_

With some trepidation, McGee came under the covered drive again and saw that their driver had dismounted and walked the small carriage back toward the stables without so much as a backward glance at his passengers. In some surprise that they had indeed been left to their own devices – maybe because they were now unaccompanied by royalty – Timothy led the doctor to the same door he'd both entered and exited that morning and once again made his way along the quiet, humble back corridors. Even the garrulous physician was silent as they passed along stairways and passages toward the servants' entry into the house proper.

McGee wasn't quite sure if he should be relieved not to be accompanied by the young but imposing Battenburg, or insulted that he was not considered enough threat to the intrigues behind these walls to be guarded, but shook off what it all meant and concentrated on his task of bringing Dr. Mallard to the body awaiting him. Nearing the larger door at the end of the last inside corridor, McGee stopped, much as the prince himself had done, to speak in hushed tones to the doctor. "Through here is the place, Ducky, and once we enter, we may not be alone again. I think everyone in the House save Battenburg has been sent away, but ... in there ... Battenburg has been very attentive."

Dr. Mallard looked at McGee quizzically for a moment, and Timothy realized that after a morning of insisting that he could say nothing, this apparent offer for a last minute discussion would make little sense. Still, as always, the doctor seemed to read as much from what was behind and around one's words as in them, and his question seemed to turn quickly to an understanding only Ducky could make of things. "I shall bear that in mind, Timothy," he said solemnly. "Shall we proceed?"

Without more, Timothy led Dr. Mallard into the grand halls and through the sitting rooms to see the prince leaning against the chamber's doorframe, an eye toward their progress as well as a clear view into the room. With a deferential nod toward him, McGee looked inside to see Gibbs and Anthony at the far end, conversing in the quietest of tones and looking even more grim, if possible, than when he'd left. At McGee's return, they crossed back toward the others but, uncharacteristically, stood apart to let Dr. Mallard approach the scene with no more information than they'd first been given. In the circumstances, McGee felt the heavy weight of social duties fall upon him.

"Your Serene Highness," he began, "may I present Dr. Donald Mallard; he..."

The prince nodded with a more distant air than McGee had remembered him taking earlier. "Yes, Mr. McGee, I know who he is, as I believe he may remember me. Doctor, the others have asked for your assistance, and believe your insight will be helpful in their work here. I hope they will impress upon you my insistence that nothing that you see or do here will go beyond this place."

Dr. Mallard, for his part, having seen the body he was here to attend, was having difficulty focusing on the amenities while she lay in such a state. "Yes, yes; of course..." he managed a bit of a nodding bow toward the Prince before he gestured toward the woman. "But what in the world is she doing _here?_"

At that, Battenburg stood more rigidly and frowned, clearly not sure what to make of the question or the man, but Gibbs spoke in a low, almost cautionary tone. "Dr. Mallard – you have something already that you can tell us about her death?"

"Even from this distance I can tell you she did not die in this place," Ducky turned his glare back to the prince. "Do you know who moved her here and arranged her thus?"

"I am not here to answer questions, Doctor. You are."

"Not when my work is intentionally sabotaged." The doctor came to stand toe to toe with the man, his indignation overriding his usual impeccable manners, and spoke in a barely contained tone. "I will not offer a professional opinion when the information presented to me has been compromised!"

McGee found himself blinking in yet another surprise at the usually cheerful doctor, who not only looked as angry as a wet cat, but showed little concern that he'd been brought to a place, and to a personage, demanding a certain deference and a measured tone. He was even more surprised to see that it was Anthony, and not Gibbs, who broke away from their discussion to approach the doctor.

"Ducky – please. This is Lady Margaret Danforth. She's..." Anthony hesitated. "She _was_ ... an acquaintance of mine. For her, if not for any of us..."

The Scotsman's bristle at the prince lingered another moment or two before he seemed to consider Anthony's words and, finally, move his eyes from the prince to the woman, then back to Anthony.

"She was a lovely woman, Ducky, and I do believe in the full bloom of health, until she was taken so abruptly," Anthony urged. "What happened to her most assuredly was untoward and undeserved, and if you can tell us anything to be of help, please believe that she is deserving of all you can offer her."

At Anthony's words, the doctor's flushed cheeks cooled a bit, and he drew a steadying breath. With a nod, he started toward the still body, but then hesitated, turning back to look at Anthony in concern. "My boy, are you alright? You've been injured recently..." He came close to peer at the younger man, gently reaching up to touch his bruised and slightly swollen jaw.

"I'm fine, Ducky," Anthony assured him, his voice low, as he tipped his face slightly away from the doctor's scrutiny. "Just a small disagreement among rivals."

"Not ... related to matters here, then?" Ducky dared to ask, and when he saw Anthony's sober expression return before he shook his head, the doctor was comforted that at least that pain was unrelated. Without more, he moved forward to kneel beside the deceased woman, beginning to speak low to her as he worked. Seeing his actions, Battenburg made to look at Anthony to offer his thanks for intervening with the doctor, but Anthony turned without so much as acknowledging the prince and went back to stand by Gibbs, who still stood apart, his own pencil and small diary in hand.

The next twenty minutes passed in near silence, punctuated only by the soft sounds of Dr. Mallard speaking to his charge, and Gibbs or Anthony speaking to the other as they watched the doctor's initial examination of the body. Timothy tried very hard to keep his eyes elsewhere but they kept returning to the scene unfolding before him, as Ducky first attempted smaller, gentler movements of the woman's limbs, prodding and manipulating as he might have a live patient, and then began to effect greater movement, on occasion asking Anthony for his assistance to do so. To Timothy's great horror, the body resisted such movement as if still alive; her limbs were fixed and rigid in the place they had taken on the floor. When the men turned her, log-roll style, from her stomach to her back, Timothy's own stomach lurched in protest to see her arms now hovering above the carpet as if held there and a frightful mottling along what must once have certainly been porcelain skin. Even Anthony turned his head away slightly and closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath, and Timothy remembered this was a woman he knew and admired in life. He remembered how helpless he felt with the death of his landlord and mentally commended Anthony all the more for his strength at this moment.

As the physician sat back on his heels and straightened slightly, Gibbs glanced over to the Prince, seemed to mull over some internal dilemma briefly, but then spoke up for the first time in several minutes. "Ducky – can you tell when she died?"

"I would put it about eight to ten hours ago, if most of her time was here, in this room, at this temperature. There are factors that will affect that estimate, but given her state of rigor and the 'post-mortem stain' you see here," he indicated the discoloration that so marred her beautiful skin, "it would be at least four hours and no more than twenty, although those extremes are unlikely. More fittingly, eight to ten," he repeated.

Gibbs looked back to the Prince. "Do you know where she was eight to twelve hours ago, Sir?"

The Prince wavered for the moment, clearly considering whether or not to offer what he knew, when his eyes darted to Mr. Anthony, who was staring, hard, at the man as they awaited a reply. To anyone who watched it seemed clear that the Prince was weighing his response with what he believed Anthony would already know, and, with a sigh, he nodded. "Lady Danforth was at the dinner party hosted here by the Prince and Princess. The guests arrived around 9:00. The evening went on for some time."

"When was the party over?" Gibbs asked.

The Prince shook his head dismissively. "There was no set time. Some took a stroll in the garden after dinner, some went to the ballroom where there was a small group of musicians providing music for those who wished to dance, some ... pursued more private activities. Some stayed through the night, some did not."

"And Lady Danforth?" Gibbs pressed.

"I do not know."

"When did you last see her?" Anthony spoke up as well, "and with whom?"

The Prince frowned, and waved a hand vaguely, "I cannot remember; I was there more as an aide to his Highness than as guest. I was not with the guests the entire time, but had to attend other duties as well."

"For the Prince, of course," Anthony mused darkly. "And when did you last see him with Lady Danforth, Sir?" he dared, his eyes flashing in anger.

Battenburg's expression remained steady, and he spoke slowly, enunciating each word crisply. "I do not know."

The air nearly vibrated with the tension in the room, lingering for several long moments, before Gibbs turned again to the doctor. "Dr. Mallard, have you determined a cause of death?"

"I have some preliminary thoughts, but I'll know more when we get her back to my examination rooms."

"No, Doctor." Battenburg spoke low. "She is not leaving this room."

Dr. Mallard turned back quickly to face him and said, "the damage has been done with her having been moved earlier. There's no harm in moving her now."

"Even so." It seemed as if the prince were actually trying to soften his order for the elder doctor. "She will not leave here."

"Then how do you propose I properly examine her?" the doctor demanded.

The men glanced one to the other until, again, Anthony was the one to speak up. "Dr. Mallard, might we arrange a sort of ... screen, behind which you can perform your work? It will allow you and her a measure of privacy..."

The Prince's eyes narrowed. "I cannot let you take any action on the body out of my presence."

Dr. Mallard stood stiffly, rising to make the most of his height, still half a head shorter than the other man, and again came near to fairly growl at him. "Have you no shame, Sir? For whatever reason you asked for my services, it is certainly for more than simply asking if she is dead or not, or for Gibbs asking me to estimate when she died. I have my suspicions about what may have happened and your behaviour is leading me to add to them!"

McGee was afraid to breathe in the thundering silence that followed. The Prince, however, was not, as he drew a long breath to add his own, dangerously low growl to the conversation. "I would advise you to take care with your words, doctor. You do not wish to make accusations which some might interpret as treasonous."

"Is that it? You bring all of us here for some faux-inspection, to offer some air of concern and a _pretense _of investigation?" Ducky made no attempt to hide his anger. "Well, Sir, I will not participate in such a scheme, and I daresay neither will these other men. I will either do my work unencumbered by you and offer my opinion or I will leave without providing my findings. Any other choice is unacceptable."

The Prince stood unmoving during the tirade, and moments after, before finally lowering his eyelids halfway in a new measure of the man before him. "Do you get your bravery from talking with the dead, or merely from being old enough to know you're joining them soon?"

"I say!" All of them, Gibbs, McGee and Anthony, had reflexively voiced their anger at the Prince's vile words to their friend, but Anthony's voice overrode them all as he leapt across the room before Gibbs could grab hold of him, his own temper ignited yet again at their host. "I will _not_ allow this bloody cat and mouse game to continue at these men's peril! It's _me_ you wanted to help you with this sordid mess; well then, I'll stay and we'll arrange whatever you bloody well want to arrange, but by God these men are walking out of here now, either with your blessing or without..."

"Anthony!" Both Gibbs and Ducky warned him sharply, as Gibbs caught up to him and held fast at his elbow.

"Go ahead, _Sir,_" Anthony sneered toward the Prince, without pause, "do whatever you like to me – have me jailed or deported or even thrown in the Tower for a bit of old-fashioned torture – but neither Ducky nor the others deserve this, no more than Lady Margaret deserved whatever end she was dealt. Let them leave."

Attempting an unruffled air, the Prince nonetheless seemed a bit taken aback by the ready insolence of the men, and he drew up straighter as he tugged at his waistcoat, straightening it. His nostrils flared as he breathed through his own anger, but finally said evenly, "gentlemen ... I have let the circumstances overcome my ... better judgment..." Battenburg paused again, and Timothy, even though he was still beyond shocked with what he had just seen and heard, found him self wondering exactly for what the Prince was expressing his regret.

As Gibbs himself must have, as he spoke up, his expression nearly freed from the anger of a moment ago. "...and were led to hire an unconventional investigator and his compatriots because of them?" Gibbs now wore the expression of someone who had just won an argument. "Well, congratulations, Sir, you were indeed successful, were you not, in securing the unconventional? And now you just don't know what on earth to do with these unconventional sorts you have before you."

The Prince met Gibbs' unyielding gaze with one of his own, but seemed to lose a bit of the steel in his backbone. Finally drawing another breath to address them all, he seemed to have come to a resolution of some sort for himself. First, he looked to Ducky and said, "Dr. Mallard, please accept my apology for my words – they were harsh and unnecessary. All of you – I also apologize for the way this matter has come to your attention, and for the way it must continue to include some ... limitations ... that you might not normally face. The ramifications of what has happened may well affect far more than simply the Lady and her loved ones, far more even than the Royal Family. What is done or not done in this investigation, no matter who is undertaking it,_ could _implicate far more people and bigger issues than any one of us in this room."

"Or maybe not?"

The Prince looked quickly to Anthony as he stared at the Prince, jaw still jutted out in offense stance and daring him to lie. The Prince's lips twisted into a sudden, wry smile that did not carry much humor. "Or maybe not," he agreed. He looked at the odd collection of men standing around him and, glancing once more to the unfortunate Lady Margaret, laid out before him, he nearly sighed his response. "Alright. Doctor, if you are still willing to continue with the examination ... I believe we can provide something in the manner of a privacy screen for you to examine her here."

Ducky frowned briefly but, even without a glance to the others, managed a nod of agreement. The Prince called for Anthony to accompany him as he left the room on a quest for a screen. As Ducky moved back to the body, murmuring his own apologies to her for the indignities she was suffering, Gibbs came toward McGee. Coming closer than he would normally do, Gibbs reached a hand toward Timothy's, and suddenly McGee felt a previously unseen note, folded down to a small, tight square, pressed into his hand.

"Listen carefully, McGee, we've little time," Gibbs breathed into his ear, calmly but intently. "Take this note to the Lady David and tell her everything you have seen and heard today. Tell her that we've reason to believe that the persons in this list were at the Prince's dinner party last night, and ask her to do whatever unobtrusive checking into events with those whom she might have some connection. Tell her to use her best judgment in getting as much information as she can about the night, the woman, or anything else in these matters. Have her tell you those she plans to pursue so we do not duplicate efforts before we have a chance to meet. And offer Ziva whatever assistance she thinks you can provide. Otherwise ... wait for us at Ducky's. Is this clear?"

Timothy simply nodded, looking more shaken than Gibbs liked.

"Can you do this, McGee?"

Timothy found his voice. "Yes, Sir. For Lady Margaret, at least, Sir."

Gibbs looked at his youngest employee and was gratified to see a stronger purpose there with his words. Without wasting another moment he nodded, then urged, "then go – now. And remember Anthony's admonitions in such cases; walk with authority and purpose, as if you are exactly where you ought to be at all times, and without a care in the world. But go now – I expect we may arrange fifteen to twenty minutes before the Prince doubts your return."

And to his credit, hoping he looked as certain and strong as Anthony or Gibbs himself would in such circumstances, McGee made his way back through the stately rooms to the back halls where he'd already come and gone this eventful day.

_...to be continued..._


	9. Chapter 9

_**Disclaimer:**__ NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur._

_**A/N:**__ Again, this is later than I'd planned, but the way this chapter developed it ended up being divided earlier than originally planned, so the next chapter already has a couple pages done – hoping that means not so long a delay next time. All comments and thoughts welcomed._

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 9**

"_Walk with authority and purpose, as if you are exactly where you ought to be at all times, and without a care in the world."_

The admonition rang in McGee's ears as he let his pace match those of others walking along the Mall around him, stretching away from the Palace on what clearly was, for the many pedestrians he saw along the way, a mild and pleasant Saturday. His heart had managed to settle into a little less of a galloping pace as he'd slipped out of Marlborough House, apparently unnoticed, and he affected a zig-a-zag route before pointing himself toward Lady Ziva's home.

He allowed himself a moment's congratulations that Anthony surely would have been proud of him, that he'd thought to stop and purchase a newspaper from one of the boys on the corner; it not only allowed him to look a bit more at leisure, at blending into the crowd, but gave him a chance to peer behind and otherwise around him. It did occur to Timothy that he was wholly inexperienced at recognizing a 'tail,' Anthony had dubbed it, should he have one, but was canny enough to look for a sudden shift of activity behind him, a fast change of direction or even a quickly darted pair of eyes. He caught none. As much as the sheer normalcy around him offered a tempting sense of success, Timothy quickly put aside the satisfaction it brought him as he focused on his task. Gibbs, Anthony and Dr. Mallard were still back there and would face the likely wrath of the Prince when he was discovered missing. And as much as he wanted to tell himself they would not face actual _danger_ from their own sovereign's man, the hairs on the back of his neck would not lie down. The whole morning had a sense of dark malevolence that only deepened, the further they'd been drawn into it. The thought made him alternately want to hurry faster, and want even more to be doubly cautious.

McGee glanced around again and affected a pace that matched those on the faster end of the crowd, still settling into the overall movement of those passing along the street. He remembered to keep his expression untroubled and pleasant, as if he were planning a stop at his favorite book seller. He couldn't help but let his thoughts turn back to Anthony's gleeful lessons in playacting, as he demanded all the while that such things made all the difference and would be needed when he least expected it. _That_ rather prophetic thought, coupled with the more serious, sober Anthony he'd seen this day, and the valiant, heroic Anthony he'd seen the previous night and again this morning, left him thinking again how he had misjudged the man time and time again. _And just what he wants people to do_, McGee told himself in a sudden epiphany. What in the world lay in the man's past to make him so noble and yet so keen on making himself an irritant?

Knowing his time might be better spent on the assignment at hand, Timothy shook off the thoughts and, as he set out toward Lady Ziva's London flat, promised himself that he would give the matter of his curious friend more thought later. At present, he had several jobs to do, not the least of which was to _find_ Ziva David and enlist her help. The latter he hoped would be offered without question; any time he'd seen her assisting them she did so in good spirits and focused manner. It was the former that might be his greatest challenge. He knew that the Lady had several homes and was seldom in one place for too long, and even when in London might be staying somewhere other than her own rooms. McGee had simply assumed from Gibbs' words that she should be in town, and at home, but the closer he got, the less certain he was. He knew that if he did not find her at home that his few, ill-informed guesses at where she might be found were unlikely to bear fruit.

So he dared step up his pace, just a bit, hoping that like so many of the society women of her standing, the Lady Ziva had been out the evening before, dancing and visiting until the early light of dawn threatened its appearance. If that were so, she might well still be at home, asleep, and the most important portion of his mission easily accomplished.

He had to remind himself a few times along the way to breathe, as one would make better time when not holding one's breath in anticipation.

_xoxoxoxoxoxox_

Once McGee had left them, Gibbs made his way back to where Battenberg stood watching Ducky with a frown, as the physician grumbled at the arrangements and the lack of dignity accorded the recently deceased. The dressing room screen, brought in from a nearby boudoir for the purpose of allowing Lady Margaret some dignity, had been the subject of some debate between Battenberg and the doctor. Battenburg demanded that he be allowed to oversee that which normally would have been done in Ducky's private offices, and clearly still intended to see more than Ducky felt necessary or proper. As he watched, Gibbs noted that for the first time in the whole affair, the Prince was thrown off his game and rattled a bit with Ducky and his examination. It was something probably few would have noticed; most simply would have seen a slightly more irritated and impatient Prince than they had in moments before. But Prince Louis had, through the entire morning with them, been cool and in control, hiding exactly what he wanted to hide and showing them a bit of his temper – or his authority – only when he sensed it served his purpose. _This_ was different, and whether it was due to Ducky's behaviour and responses, or simply the closer inspection at hand of the corpse, Gibbs couldn't yet tell. He would, however, watch for more. And take advantage of this sudden chink in the man's armour as needed.

Moreover, Gibbs made note that not only had Anthony met his eye as McGee slipped away, acknowledging that Timothy's leave had been taken, but that his protégée's keen nose for others' emotional barometers had not faltered, and it took some doing for Gibbs not to show a grin of amusement as he watched the younger man's response to it: Anthony would watch the struggle between Ducky and Battenberg until just the moment when the two men seemed to find a way that the screen, and Lady Margaret and the Prince and the doctor would all be best served, at which time he would suddenly move in to move the screen, an offer of help on his lips and a suggestion that the screen would be better just so, which would result in an explosive objection from Ducky that it could never do, followed by heartfelt apologies from Anthony as he offered another adjustment, which of course was not to the Prince's liking. To his credit, Anthony managed three cycles of changing things around before Battenberg narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously and banished him to stand several feet away, once even threatening to break any hand that touched the screen again. With Anthony's help, the ten minutes or so that McGee might have had now had stretched to more than twenty. Gibbs vowed to remember to offer one of his rare compliments to Anthony for his quick-witted catch of the opportunity and making the most of it.

"Doctor, how can you be so sure of the time of her death?

The Prince and Ducky had managed to come to an understanding, and Battenberg watched, as he could, with a deepening frown. Gibbs found the man's sudden focus on the murder of interest, and he catalogued for himself some various reasons. The Prince had all but ignored the woman as he fetched them to Marlborough House and her side; he all but stepped unthinkingly over her, as if it was anything but a human being lying there, and one he had known, socially, at that. Now, as the examination was taking place, Battenberg was keen to know what would be found and, Gibbs thought, possibly even remembered that it wasn't a length of wood lying across the rug, but a woman with whom he might even have danced some brief hours earlier. The man's demeanor appeared to shift with more concern than any fear of discovery, but concern for what? Gibbs narrowed his eyes as he sought answers not yet presenting themselves.

Gibbs shook himself to listen to Ducky's reply, listening for both what he did and did not say to the Prince. He had known and worked with the doctor long enough to know that Dr. Mallard would share only those facts which would answer the basic questions of when and how she died. Any suspicions of foul play, and at whose hand, would be saved for Gibbs and Anthony, in private. He knew that Anthony was as aware of that as he, but noted that Anthony now crept in closer, and in doing so, closer to Battenberg, as if this would be his best chance to catch what the doctor had to say. Battenberg noted it and became even more attentive. Gibbs felt himself nearly nod in approval at his protégée's manipulation of their host.

"You realize, of course, that once someone dies there are changes that occur, over time," Ducky was explaining. "Those changes have been observed and recorded quite scientifically, so that ranges have been developed, based on body temperature combined with its relative rigidity or lack thereof. And after many years one develops one's own sense for the environment as well, and how it may play a part ... oh, my dear..." Ducky interrupted himself, speaking now to Lady Margaret as he leaned closer. "I _am_ sorry."

"Doctor?" Battenberg's question was immediate and clear.

Ducky straightened, his eyes narrowing a little as he looked to the Prince and, Gibbs knew without question, responded with information that might be true, but was not the source of his comment – at least not all of it. "There is bruising on her of a rather – intimate – sort, which would indicate that someone with whom she has been intimate was violent with her, abusive. These particular marks do not necessarily mean that the intimacy itself was forced, only that the act itself _was_ – but we may see more later."

"Where, Ducky?" Gibbs asked softly.

"Her breasts – there are both hand prints and bite marks, and both recent and older. I _am_ sorry that you suffered so at someone's hands, my dear," he added, looking sadly at the woman.

"Nothing that would be fatal," Gibbs commented.

"Not these, no."

"Doctor, if you would..." Battenberg gestured back to the corpse, and Ducky continued his examination in silence. Gibbs stole a glance to see if the news had affected Anthony and he saw at once it had, but that the younger man was determined not to let it show: his eyes had shifted into an even harder, driven look than he'd seen earlier that day, and the muscle at his jaw clenched as it tightened. But he did not drop back, waiting again for any chance to break Battenberg's hold on the situation – or to allow McGee even more time before he was discovered missing.

That time, however, was soon to end.

Both Gibbs and Anthony sensed the Prince's growing impatience, and asked the doctor random questions, just related enough to allow them to seem honestly offered, but general enough that Ducky could answer them without compromising the information he might want to keep for their ears only. At first the Prince listened attentively, but as more time passed, he seemed to disengage and suddenly, looked around the room quickly before leveling an accusative look at Gibbs.

"Where's McGee?"

Gibbs simply raised his eyebrows to look around the room as well, giving himself a moment to gauge the man's reaction before he spoke, but Anthony nodded and spoke first. "Ah, well, Sir, McGee has not been with us all that long and has seen no more than two or three corpses before. He is still a bit ... _tender_ ... in the strength of his stomach – and I daresay, his bowels – when it comes to an investigation of the body. When I last saw him he was looking a bit weak in the knees, and I suspect he may be off ridding himself of a rather delicious breakfast. But not to worry, he'll come 'round – he always does."

To Anthony's credit, it sounded wholly believable, more for the way he said it and not the words. He barely took his eyes off of Ducky and his work, offering his explanation with a shrug and, mid-way through, a bit of a smirk to himself, as if remembering past occurrences of the same, less than experienced investigator – which Gibbs knew had never once happened since McGee had been with them. Gibbs had long known that Anthony had a flair for the dramatic and had a talent for spinning tales in the spot – but this, low key and anything but flamboyant, offered under the circumstances in which Anthony, in particular, found himself – it was a wonder, even for him. It appeared that the long hours spent in the theatre had rubbed off a bit. Even Gibbs, who knew him as well as any man did, might have been convinced of the sincerity of his words.

But if the Prince was convinced of Anthony's sincerity, he wasn't quite ready to _trust_ either one of them, and he glanced back to Gibbs. "Did he say anything to you?"

Once again, Anthony's quick wit intervened – this time with what sounded like a small, stifled snort. As if compelled, the Prince looked back at him, and Anthony looked properly chastised. "Begging your pardon, Sir." He waited until the Prince's glare demanded explanation, and he looked properly sober and sincere when he said, "it's just that McGee would rather die than have to tell Gibbs he was made ill by a crime scene. I have been known to carry the same preference, myself."

With a dismissive snort of his own, the Prince looked back toward the doctor. Gibbs knew he would most certainly have to have a word with Anthony for his actions this day. No matter what else occurred, this day had found Anthony doing his finest work. Gibbs found himself wondering if the man sensed just how well he'd done.

But there were only moments left now before the Prince would become more demanding. Gibbs cleared his throat and asked, "Ducky, will you be able to determine how she died?"

The older man sighed as he sat back on his heels. "In the most general of terms, yes. More specifically, possibly." The clear blue eyes peered at him from behind his spectacles, and, seeing from his long familiarity with Gibbs that he had his permission to go ahead, the doctor turned back to the body and said gently, "at least 'twas a far more peaceful passing than waking life for you, m'Lady." Looking back to the men, Ducky said, "I believe she was drugged; poisoned, after a fashion. She was given something that would have let her drift off into sleep, and on from there to a slow cessation of her heart and organs. Death would have taken, oh, maybe an hour."

"What drug, doctor?" Battenberg pressed.

Ducky looked appropriately contemplative. "Well, Sir, there are several that come to mind. Not all of those are available without some advance planning, and some not readily available in London at all. Of those, the ones that would not have a very brief period of necessary potency..."

"So you don't know which drug it was, doctor?" the Prince interrupted.

The Scotsman's expression was bland at the man's frustration. "Without the equipment at my office, I am reticent to choose one over another. Had I an opportunity to look into this further..." Ducky could not resist the temptation to make his point – again. "If you truly want to know how she died, and of what, you'd be well advised to let each of us do what we do – without tying our hands."

"Your suggestion is noted, doctor. Are you finished?"

"Hardly," the doctor snorted. "I haven't even finished half of the external examination. You see, in such a case, there are certain tell-tale changes – or not – in the skin, the nail beds, other places. A thorough examination makes it far more likely to obtain an accurate determination of the drug used to kill her."

As Ducky bent back toward the body, his words drawing the Prince's attention with him, Anthony allowed himself the briefest look toward Gibbs. Without words they each acknowledged that even Ducky's borrowed time was running out. Gibbs allowed himself the tiniest tip of his chin and look of pride for a job well done, which Anthony caught before looking away and was reflected for another moment or two in his own, quietly appreciative expression.

Battenberg came to _them_ for a reason, Gibbs reflected. It hadn't been the first time their clients had been less than forthcoming. Knowing that they were on the path of obtaining the information the Prince claimed to want, and knowing that if he'd wanted an investigation that played by the rules, he would have called the Met, Gibbs simply waited now. And he was right – it wasn't long at all.

_xoxoxoxoxoxox_

McGee had gone to Lady Ziva's home but found neither the Lady nor a servant there to answer the door. _Not even a servant?_ He hoped fervently that it did not mean she was abroad again.

Glancing about, he tried peering in the windows, although with her terraced home, his efforts showed him nothing that would mean the lady of the house was in town or not, something he knew before looking, but, in his frustration, tried anyway. It occurred to him it might be as uninformative to see if her carriage was there, but it was all he could think to do at the moment. A carriage in the stable might mean she was either inside or abroad; the carriage gone could mean she was simply nearby visiting or a day's ride away at Hampton Court or elsewhere. If a horse or two was there, he wasn't sure if it meant she was less or more likely to be inside, asleep, and her maid at the market.

Still ... it might tell him _something_...

He made his way down the narrow access path between buildings down the way, hopeful that he could access her stable – and determine which was hers – without having to make his way across other yards, or scale fences, or break into places owned by those who would not take kindly to such trespasses. Anthony seemed to think that such behavior was inevitable in their trade, and seemed wholly reconciled to it, but Timothy had avoided doing so under his own volition and had hoped to continue doing so. He found himself holding his breath that his good luck in getting away from Marlborough House would hold.

He discovered that he could come around the back of the line of stables, all open to a back alley that allowed for the coming and going of carriages, and saw that behind it there was even a paddock, undoubtedly for the residents to allow their horses to run or graze. All he needed to do was count down the row to determine which home was Lady Ziva's to pick out her stables, behind it.

But as he came around behind the stables and neared the one that should be hers, he could hear a shifting, sliding sound, accompanied by occasional soft thuds, which he could not decipher into meaningful information. All around him the birds sang and the horses whinnied contentedly, and Timothy took that as a sign that the noise was not our of the ordinary here — or at least, no real threat. He neared the open stable doors, but as he did so made out that the noises were not inside at all, but on back, beyond the small paddock. They were most certainly man-made, as no animal made the thudding sounds he heard. Walking carefully at its wooded edge, so as not to give himself away, McGee came toward the sounds, his curiosity getting the better of him. He assured himself that it was merely to ask where he might find the Lady Ziva, and that it was a Gibbs-like hunch and not desperation that made him think this was a good idea.

He made his way back to a small clearing, where he saw immediately the source of the noises he'd heard. The clearing, hidden from the world by the thick stand of trees on three sides and the manicured shrubs circling the paddock on the other, contained two youths sparring, clothed in what he recognized as close-fitting fencing garb, the mesh faceplates on their protective headgear and similar builds making them look like a matched set of overgrown toy figures. Yet instead of fencing foils, the lads each had the quarterstaffs becoming more and more popular among the sporting set, and they worked through a series of moves that looked more like a dance than a true contest.

In spite of his haste, McGee paused a moment; he doubted mere stableboys could afford such fencing garb, and if these were the Lady's neighbors who'd trespassed into a fine spot for their practice, interrupting them might bring more problems than assistance for him at the moment. But he had no other ideas for finding Lady Ziva and if they knew her, they might be of help, and he made his mind up to interrupt them and ask.

As he had mulled things over, though, the pair's actions had taken on a subtle difference: the moves had become sharper, quicker, and more intense, and now the actions of one proved more aggressive, as the other moved to meet and defend. The second was clearly less adept than the first, and Timothy could see that this was a lesson of sorts, all conducted in silence and, from what he could tell, grave seriousness. The 'teacher' pressed his student onward, and McGee heard the student breathing more heavily now to meet the challenge. Timothy was hesitant to interrupt the lesson, considering both his uninvited intrusion and his own resulting safety, but time really was of the essence. He stepped away from his hiding place and out toward the clearing. "I say! You fellows–"

The pair abruptly ceased all action, both turning their masked faced to him in mute attention. Each held still as a startled deer for the moment, until one of them, the one he believed to be the student, ducked his head slightly and, as quickly as that startled deer, ran off through the nearby brambles.

"Wait; I mean no harm..." McGee called after the lad, his remorse genuine but fading quickly in his hurry to find the Lady. "My sincere apologies for interrupting your games, but I am in great need of finding the mistress of the house, the Lady David." He nodded back toward the elegant terraced home. "Have you seen her about today? Can you tell me where she might be found?"

His words were met by a silently tipped head, as if the boy were determining whether or not such a rash, insistent assault on a lady could have any legitimate reason. McGee could barely see inside the mesh of the fencing mask, and he found himself wondering vaguely how the boy could see enough to spar. Shaking off the thought, he added, making himself seem as unthreatening as he could, "I am an acquaintance of hers, and our mutual friends have great need of her time." The head bobbed slightly, but the lad said nothing. Frowning a bit at the odd reception, for the boy did not seem to fear him and, McGee began to suspect, was having a bit of fun at his expense, Timothy drew a breath to ask again, when the youth, still not speaking, raised a hand the back of his mask and made to pull it off. When he did so – to McGee's stunned surprise – "he" shook out waves of rich, dark hair, and the Lady David's amused expression met his.

"Mr. McGee! To what do I owe this pleasure?"

_...to be continued..._


	10. Chapter 10

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur**_.

_A/N: I really have to hand it to Sequitur once again: so many of the reviews here have been as much about this steampunk universe she created as are about this story – with good reason. What I wouldn't give to see these characters on the screen, acted out by our 21__st__ century cast. Sheer brilliance to put the team in this era!_

_Reviews, as always, treasured and taken deeply into account ... (and geez, after a couple hours writing this I end up talking more like them than me ... eep!)_

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 9**

McGee stood blinking for another moment, too many thoughts vying for his attention to choose just one, but his eyes had a will of their own as they moved up and down the Lady's form, clad as it was, not in the more proper attire of wide, satiny skirts and yards of silks in which he'd seen her before, but in cloth and leather fencing garb which was made to fit nearly as a second skin – a _man's_ skin, McGee's thoughts tumbled – allowing him to see the slim, fit figure he'd secretly imagined was there all along. Whether or not such a manner of dress was acceptable and proper for a woman where she came from – and Timothy had no doubt that the Lady Ziva was a proper and well-bred woman, frightening as she might be – seeing her as she was, her body so beautifully fit and free of petticoats and ...

"McGee?"

At his thoughts, Timothy blushed mightily, and the realization that not only must she indeed carry all the knives and other weaponry to which Anthony constantly alluded, but that also, in all likelihood, Ziva David was equally as deadly without any weapon in hand, given what he had just witnessed, made his mouth instantly dry. He could say nothing.

"McGee," she tried again, walking nearer, her mask under her arm at her hip and a tiny smile playing her lips. "What brings you here? Gibbs?"

Reminded of his mission, McGee immediately dropped his eyes from her graceful shape to the ground and nodded. Finding his voice, but feeling his cheeks still burn, he spoke in a rush, careful not to embarrass them both by looking at her in her ... her partial state of dress. "Yes, m'Lady; he and Anthony need your help with an investigation. It is of the utmost urgency and secrecy, and ..."

"McGee, take a breath," she urged, "we will not move any faster if your brain is running too fast to tell me what we're about."

He would reflect later that she must have been making to soothe him or quiet his anxiety, but when the Lady placed her soft, small hand on his arm – the one he'd so recently seen wielding a quarterstaff with cunning and deftness – he felt his already speedy pulse jump into an even faster pace. Whether that reaction came from the intimacy of the woman's touch, as she stood before him, boldly clad in men's fencing togs, or from the certainly of her ability to slay him as he stood, he would never know. For Gibbs' sake, however, and for Anthony's – and for the sake of his own, upended pride – he forced himself to think past her touch, take a steadying breath, and speak again. "Anthony received an engagement this morning to investigate a murder – a private investigation, from ... someone of rather public renown. The information provided to us has been severely restricted. And compromised. Gibbs asked me to slip away while our benefactor was otherwise engaged, and to bring you this."

He had retrieved the small, folded note he'd shoved low in his pocket and now thrust it hurriedly at her. Lady Ziva took the note delicately and opened it to skim the words quickly. Her eyes narrowed in response to the words she took in, but looked back to McGee and said evenly, "shall we go inside, Mr. McGee, and discuss this further?"

Timothy nodded, grateful that whatever the note said it apparently communicated to her the need for discretion, lest anyone with keen ears be about. And, he realized guiltily as he followed her, lest anyone of ill-breeding be about to leer at the striking form of the woman, now striding toward her home with a bold, carefree step, seemingly oblivious to the fact that her appearance was far too daring for her quiet little street.

Leading McGee into her home through the servants' entrance in the back, McGee noting that her avoidance of the front entryway might reflect a bit more concern about propriety than he had originally thought, if she did so to avoid the prying eyes of her neighbors, Lady Ziva spoke as soon as they were inside. "Do you know who these persons are, McGee, with whom Gibbs and Anthony have been dealing?"

He nodded as he followed the Lady into her kitchen, watching as she set about to fill her own kettle and put it on to boil. "Yes, I went along this morning them," he said quickly, "and after a brief time was sent to fetch Dr. Mallard, to bring him along. It was Marlborough House to which we were summoned, and where the body lay. We have met with only one person in all of it – his Serene Highness, Louis of Battenberg."

She barely paused at that, not looking to him or changing her course, but Timothy noted a slight stiffening of her movements, as if she was more on alert with the news. "And the victim?"

"Lady Margaret Danforth."

The Lady turned to him abruptly, her eyes widening at his words. "Lady Margaret? Murdered?" At Timothy's nod, she asked, "_in_ Marlborough House?"

McGee hesitated. That had certainly been his assumption, at least until Gibbs suggested she had been killed elsewhere than the place where they saw her, and Dr. Mallard had confirmed as much upon his arrival. "I do not know," he admitted. "We were shown her body as she lay in one of the family's private rooms. Once Dr. Mallard's saw her, he said that she had not met her end where she lay, but had been moved there since her death. The Prince implied that it was where she was found. When I left, that was all that had been said."

"'Implied,' McGee?"

He nodded again. "He has told us next to nothing, and whether that's from lack of knowledge or unwillingness to assist in the investigation, I cannot say. I _do_ believe – and I suspect Gibbs and Anthony believe as I do – that he knows far more than he has told us."

"Of that I have no doubt," she murmured, more to herself than McGee, then asked, "what about the police or the guards – has anyone else been called in?"

"No. And I think..." He was loathe to put too much stake in his own investigative hunches yet, without hearing the others' impressions to add to his own, but the Lady's own curiosity was clear and he'd had a strong feeling about it all, so dared, "he said he'd called upon Anthony to see if we could determine who murdered her. Not to discover _who_ murdered her, but if _we_ could identify him – maybe, then, to determine if an investigation by the authorities could do as well." At the growing understanding in the Lady's eyes, he added, "I think he knows ... or suspects ... who killed her, and wants to know if it can be found out. He allowed us only thirty-six hours, and why else a time limit but the need to report her death to the proper authorities – and her husband – before too much time goes by?" McGee urged, in a rush. "Why else just set us loose in the room where the body lay and all but dare us to figure it all out?"

"I see." Lady Ziva nodded and, as she looked back to Gibbs' note to scan its contents more slowly, pursed her lips in thought, but looked back to Timothy again, his face flushed with emotion at the events of the morning. "Did you have a chance to tell Anthony or Gibbs of your theory?"

"My ... I don't know that it's a _theory_," he blinked a bit, backing away from his earlier certainty, "but no, I was only with Gibbs for a moment when the Prince was not there as well, and it was then he bade me to hurry on to bring you this list and his message."

She nodded, and offered a small smile. "I think they both would be impressed with your deduction, Timothy, especially if you have not had the 'pleasure' of the royals' company before this." She took a final glance at the list and said, "I know several of those named here, some better than others, and know even more who may know them. Is there something in particular that I should be seeking?"

"Anthony and Gibbs think that the persons named there attended a dinner party there last night, but it is mostly Anthony's supposition, as the Prince had not yet provided us with the names of those in fact at the dinner, though he said he might. And he said in the most direct of terms that we were not to contact anyone who had attended, nor anyone employed at Marlborough House, so ... Gibbs wants _you _to do so." McGee wasn't quite sure what to make of Lady Ziva's slow, conspiratorial smile at that, but decided it bode well for an enthusiastic participation on her part, and continued, "he asks that you find out anything you can about the dinner, or Lady Danforth, or anything that can assist in determining who killed her, or where or how – _anything_ that could assist in their investigation. He wants you to be discrete, under the circumstances, but use your own judgment about who to contact and how." He gulped in a breath of air, willing himself to settle down into his task and focus on the matters at hand, now that he had successfully found the Lady and enlisted her in the investigation. "And he said that I should assist you in any way I can. The Prince's time limit is narrowing – it was almost three hours ago now that he said we had thirty six. So I am at your service in whatever way I can best help you help Gibbs."

The Lady nodded, smiled, and glanced past Timothy's shoulder to the kettle. "Then pour us some tea as a start, McGee, whilst I go change into something more fitting our investigation than these clothes. I will be back down shortly."

"Lady Ziva – " Timothy stopped her, another warning on his lips as she turned. "The Prince also extracted our word that none of what we saw would be spoken to anyone outside of those at Marlborough House this morning, not without his permission. Therefore ... you were not to know of what I saw ..."

" ... _and_ you said nothing of the kind to me," she nodded thoughtfully, then smiled back at him with a wise certainty that could rival any such look from Gibbs. "I shan't be long." With that, she turned and – he could hear, quite literally – bound up the steps like a stableboy.

Feeling a sense of relief that his most critical part in the adventure had been discharged, McGee went back to take the kettle from the fire and peer about for her teapot. His sharp ears caught snippets of the Lady's voice, clearly in conversation with someone, but he went about his task, assuming it was a maid or other servant with whom she spoke. He found a china teapot in the cupboard, lovely but comfortably worn enough to be for daily use, next to a set of teacups which he also pulled down. Peering about into the pantry, he didn't hear the soft footsteps behind him until he heard the tiny, rattling sound of a tea tin shaken behind him, and a now-familiar voice asking, "looking for this, Timothy?"

_**xoxoxoxoxoxox**_

The Prince's attention become increasingly torn between Dr. Mallard's narration of what he found as he examined the Lady Danforth, mixed as it was with reminisces of similar findings and what _that_ augured for his findings in this case, and the patient, silent attention of Anthony and his mentor as the doctor's examination continued. Glancing back to them once again, clearly feeling a bit of the impatience Gibbs had observed earlier, the Prince glowered, "you have finished your investigation here?"

"Yes, given the limits under which you would have us work," Anthony offered quietly, in a commendably neutral tone. "Unless you will allow us to look beyond this room, we have nothing more to do until Dr. Mallard makes his determination about the cause of Lady Danforth's death."

From the Prince's scowl, he was not pleased with the response, but Gibbs suspected it was less the content of Anthony's reply and more the circumstances of the moment, although he could not quite divine what in _these_ circumstances was more upsetting to Battenberg than had been in those moments before. Possibly a sense that he was losing control of things? The Prince had initially asked for Anthony and himself; they'd managed to bring along McGee. He had demanded that none out of their circle be made aware of events; they had not only added Ducky to their number but had sent McGee off, without a minder, to bring him back to examine the body.

_Perhaps the Prince was regretting his decision to involve them? Has he had second thoughts about engaging those with a reputation of being unconventional, even bending – or ignoring – the rules? Was this a clever idea he had that he found went awry, when his unconventional investigators refused to follow convention?_

The Prince was not pacing, exactly; he was too disciplined to let such an outward sign of his agitation to surface. However, he had shifted his posture and position more than once, using his observation of the doctor's examination as a pretext for his restless movement. But only moments after his snappish question to Gibbs, he turned again abruptly, clearly at the end of his patience.

"_Where is McGee?"_ Battenberg demanded.

As Gibbs began a slow shrug, making to look back toward the doorway again, Anthony stepped toward them and, with an inclusive glance toward the Prince, spoke deferentially to Gibbs, his voice again low. "I'll go look for him, Sir; if he is ill, he likely would prefer I be the one to observe his state than to have you..."

"_No."_ Battenberg's eyes cut to Anthony as he barked his order, then wavered a moment, suddenly undecided. Looking to the doctor, who had only just turned to his notes again, scribbling away with a sudden, enthusiastic energy and a back-and-forth pattern of peering at the body and recording something of interest therefrom, the Prince then turned back to Gibbs. "Not him. _You._ Go find your man." His voice was low and menacing. "Five minutes."

Gibbs offered a nod, but then asked, "and if I don't find him in five minutes, Sir?" Gibbs asked, his face and voice completely neutral. "Do you prefer I come back here, or continue to search for him?"

The Prince's nostrils flared. "You _will_ find him – _and_ in five minutes."

Gibbs met the Prince's eyes and nodded once, turning to leave the room without a glance back to Anthony or the doctor. As Timothy had, Gibbs walked down the halls of the servants' entrance where they'd entered that morning, making his way out to the covered drive. Gibbs knew that, as opposed to Timothy's earlier exit, his own movements outside the house might be cause for observation – _if_ the Prince could pull himself away from the body, and leave Ducky and Anthony alone in its company, long enough to either do so himself or enlist someone to follow Gibbs for him. And even if the Prince had installed someone else, prior to their arrival, to keep an eye out for them – doubtful, as the Prince did not seem to know of McGee's flight from the premises; if he had, he'd certainly not let anyone else out of his sight so trustingly – the quicker he could get away from the house and lose himself into the back alleys and crowded walkways of London, the better, in all events.

With a furtive glance along the drive and toward the stables, Gibbs walked, as quickly as could allow himself, along the wall of the house and around its corner, where he could follow one hedge into the next, and then the next, all along the opposite side of the house from where the body lay. One hedge to the next became one building to the next, and from shrubbery to alleyway, he darted in and out of covering forms, allowing him to double back or change course abruptly without being seen. Whether or not it was necessary, Gibbs followed his own lessons to the letter all the while keeping an eye out for a tail. He saw none, but with his course, Gibbs knew that if the Prince _had_ arranged for eyes on him, or if he merely looked out of a window toward the grounds, Gibbs simply would not be found.

And over the five minutes he'd been given to find McGee – and for the additional twenty five thereafter – Gibbs took a circuitous route away from Marlborough House and the Mall and Prince Louis of Battenberg, on to do his own further investigation as he knew Ziva would soon be starting hers. And as he moved, he prayed most fervently that his hunch was correct, and that he had not just left his long-time friend, and his most trusted assistant, with someone who would use his considerable power and influence to punish them all, simply for doing what they had been engaged to do.

**To be continued...**


	11. Chapter 11

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur**_.

_A/N: Sorry for the delay – work, the holidays and a Secret Santa fic exchange put this behind. With luck there won't be so much time between installments now, and in fact there are a couple big chunks of the next chapter already done. _

_Kudos again to Sequitur for her universe and the Victorian version of our favorite team. All comments, reviews or other input appreciated!_

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 11**

As Gibbs' "five minutes" had stretched to forty-five, the tension in the room had escalated, but save Ducky's quiet murmurs to Lady Margaret, subdued in the circumstances from his usual discourse, the inhabitants were quiet. When the time had stretched to an hour without Gibbs' presence, the Prince suddenly turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, without one further word of warning or threat to either of them. As the sound of retreating footsteps faded, Anthony took the last two or three paces toward Ducky from where he'd taken up a post by the elderly physician, both to observe his work and to be nearby, just in case.

"Anything more you can tell yet from your examination, Ducky?"

Dr. Mallard noted with approval that even with these events, the younger man's voice was quiet and calm. He would have to remember to tell Jethro about Anthony's rising to the occasion, he mused before speaking. "Not enough, I fear. What I told you before about drug's involvement is correct, as far as I can tell now. And poisoning is still accurate. However ..." The doctor paused, considering the woman with a sad frown. "I would like to know if she were happy, in her life, or if she had reason to want to end it. With the marks upon her..." He shook his head and went back to his work.

"You think she took the poison herself, to end her own life?"

"No, not from what I have heard or myself seen about her, always gay and charming to those about her. But it _is_ possible, Anthony, and it must be ruled out. For a woman as apparently happy and carefree as she might have seemed to everyone, to bear such marks as these..." The doctor discretely pulled aside the drape just enough that Anthony could see the tell-tale damage, where it was, and of what type. "Would you not think that in the privacy of her own soul she might seek a way to escape the life she hid from others, were it as painful to her as it might be?"

Anthony considered, then spoke, slowly, "unless this, too, was consensual."

"Possible, of course – but certainly not the norm." Anger filled the quiet voice. "Far too many women are abused and, I daresay, you will not find many who _enjoy_ it."

"Oh, I know, Ducky," Anthony replied grimly, his knuckles gently stroking his still-tender jaw. "I do know – maybe more _painfully_ than most men."

At that reminder, Ducky looked back up and over toward Anthony to see the marks he still bore from his adventures of the previous night, and his ire softened. "Of course. My apologies, Anthony, if I seemed to direct my anger toward you. You are certainly more enlightened than most of your age and breeding as to such atrocities."

Anthony allowed a snort and a forgiving smile. "I would thank you, Ducky," he teased slightly, "but I suspect that bar is not a high one, in your eyes." He glanced from the body back to the room's exit and on toward the hall, trying to quell the rise of nerves he'd felt upon the Prince's sudden departure. For a reason he couldn't yet fathom, that action seemed to Anthony to bode the most ill for them since they'd arrived. "And if anyone here thought this were a death by her own hand, I suspect there would be less concern about our comings and goings – if we were brought in at all." He was quiet for another moment, then added, "I do hope that Battenberg isn't off arranging for Gibbs and McGee to be rounded up and brought back, in the Crown's custody, Ducky. I am certain he could make things ... _unpleasant_ ... for us all."

"Indeed." The doctor continued his work, but in a softer voice, asked, "you don't expect Gibbs to return, do you?"

Anthony wasn't too sure if it had been a question or a statement, but Anthony simply shook his head. "I expect Gibbs to do as much investigation as he can do quickly, and determine his course from there. I have no doubt that he intends to come back for us, Ducky – but since he left without so much as a 'by your leave' to the Prince ... he may not find his name at on the guest list for a return visit when he does."

**_xoxoxox_**

Abigail stood before McGee with the most innocent of expressions, demure and sweet, as she rattled the tea tin in his face, but her cheeks glowed with a pinkish health that no amount of pinching could have raised. As he thought of it, McGee wondered if she did not appear a bit _too_ innocent, and not all that surprised to find him rooting about in the Lady's pantry.

But she left him no time for further reflection, as she crisply stepped around him and crossed over toward the counter where he'd left the tea service, her petticoats rustling as they brushed his legs. "If you are here, McGee, does that mean that Ducky has finished as well? I didn't expect him to be done for quite some time yet, so I came by to see Lady Ziva. You came at just the right time, as we hadn't even yet had a chance to start the kettle."

Timothy turned, a frown developing as he worked it out. "But ... Lady Ziva was ... not _here._ She was outsi... er, she was _out_. Or, at least, not receiving visitors. She was ... well," he hesitated, unsure just how much Abigail might know about Ziva's more ... _energetic_ ... pastimes, to which he had just been a witness. "She was not _in_ until she came in with me."

"I know that, silly," Abigail said, sounding almost nervous herself, her eyes on the tea she now spooned into the pot as she avoided his. "I only just arrived. And I have a key of my own, one I keep for when Ziva is out of the country. I check the house for her on occasion if she will be away for a time." McGee sensed that Abigail was hiding something from him, but could not for the world accuse her, and with all that was transpiring at the moment with Anthony and Gibbs, he could not let Abigail's adventures – whatever they might be – distract him from his business.

_Besides ... it really was not his business if she didn't wish to tell him whatever it was making her secretive ... was it? _

His suspicion about what she might be hiding – and the thought that Miss Abigail might be concerned enough about his thoughts and opinion of her to want to hide it – both unsettled his gut and made his mouth a bit dry, suddenly. He swallowed, hard, cleared his throat, and shook his mind back to business, just as she finished swirling the hot water over the tea leaves.

Abigail put the lid on the pot to steep, and, managing a firmer resolve in her expression than she had thus far this morning, turned to McGee, asking lightly as she did, "shall we go into the sun room to talk? It's quite lovely there this time of d..."

Meeting Timothy's eyes now for the first time since she'd appeared in the kitchen, what Abby saw as she considered _him_ – and his too-communicative face – led worry to replace anything previously in her thoughts. "McGee," Abigail's expressive green eyes searched his face. "What matter brought you here, to see Ziva? Where are Gibbs and Anthony? Are they alright? And what's happened to Ducky? And w_hy are you here if they are not?"_

Again, he felt his mouth go dry, but this time it was as he fretted over exactly how to handle Abby's demands. Not only was she entitled to know if the others were in danger – something he could not, in all honesty, deny at the moment, as sobering a prospect as that might be, given the circumstances – but if he'd learned anything about Abby it was her insatiable appetite to know what was going on with things in general, and with Gibbs and his assistants in particular. He licked his lips and tried, "I ... I am sworn to secrecy, Miss Abigail, and I cannot tell you wh..."

"They have been called by Prince Battenberg to Marlborough House to investigate a murder," Ziva announced summarily as she breezed into the room, silks and crinoline swishing as she passed them both and disappeared into the panty.

"Lady Ziva!" McGee squawked, his jaw dropping.

"You may have been sworn to secrecy by the Prince, McGee, but I have not." The Lady's voice floated back to them as did the sounds of her moving a few things about. "And as time is of the essence, we can use Abby's help as well." Ziva appeared again, in her hands three sheathed knives and a small pistol, and she handed one of the knives to Abby as she lay the other things on the counter. "You do not seemed to be armed, McGee. Do you need me to find you something as well?"

"The Prince made it clear that _no _one was to know, nor any of us to communicate beyond..." he gasped, the imagined ire of the Crown's representative overwhelming him.

"And yet you are here, at Gibbs' request, to seek my help. Clearly he believes that the Prince's directives needed some ... reconsideration." Ziva looked long into the young man's eyes, seeing the conflict there. "Are we not a team, McGee?"

The silence in the room was nearly as clear an answer as was his slow nod, at which, it seemed, the tension in the room broke. A wide-eyed Abby, trying with all her might in the dark circumstances to hide a grin of conspiratorial pleasure to be included, finally breached the quiet to whisper, "who's the victim?"

**_xoxoxox_**

Gibbs found himself alternately cursing and praising Anthony in his thoughts as he made his way up the street toward the cab stand. His morning coat, upon which his assistant had insisted, had gotten the attention of those passing him on the street, curious as to why such a fine gentleman was on foot, walking as he did not with the mien of one simply taking the air. Realizing that his apparel would make him glaringly suspicious were he to seek information in the usual back alleys and darker pubs where he often found some of his best local news, and given his reputation and a case that called for as little scrutiny as possible, Gibbs quickly determined that because of his garb, the limits on his time and the day of the week, he might have his best luck in Printinghouse Square. There he might find some of the several men he knew whose business it was to have their ears cocked for the smallest tidbit, and their noses in everything, especially where the Crown and the randy Prince Albert were concerned, all in the hope that an article might be developed for their respective newspapers. Despite it being a Saturday, making it harder to find such men about, Gibbs decided that his most immediate, best hope of finding information about Lady Margaret's murder – most assuredly the fodder for a scandal the likes of which London had not seen in his day – would be among these men.

Gibbs was not happy with his haste. If he'd had the day for his investigation, he would have waited and watched, sorted out the activity among the news vendors running off with the day's second edition and the messengers bringing their flimsies, watched as the writers came and went, ever on the prowl for prized information, the elusive newly emerging detail, that they could tell the world before their competitors caught wind of it. Only then would he seek out his several contacts, both writers and non, often as wily in obtaining the odd clue as Anthony might be.

But today he had only minutes for them, and went from one printing house to the next to seek out his top three acquaintances in the trade. He found two of them in. Now, as he stalked back out to the street and on to the next cab stand, making sure not to use the same cab or stand twice, in the hope that each portion of his journey could not be linked to the next by either a particular cabby or those who waited near his stand. He fought back the frustration of his pursuit by telling himself that, indeed, no news here was in itself news: neither man had heard more than the most general, banal information about the party the evening before – the food and the drink, the guests and the music. Gibbs reminded himself to better appreciate the true prize of his morning's efforts, the list of names he now held of those in attendance, most of them actually on the list that Anthony had supplied, and bade himself acknowledge that the very fact that two of the most irritatingly persistent publishers of London's gossip had not the first inkling that Lady Margaret had gone missing, much less that a murder had occurred. That in itself caused a darker cloud on Gibbs' brow: thus far, the Prince had managed to keep her death wholly within his walls. To what lengths would he go to keep it so?

Gibbs turned the corner and came upon the second cab stand of the morning, and went directly to the first unfamiliar face to catch his eye. Gibbs growled another address to the driver, promising an extra bob if he could make arrive in under ten minutes, and bound inside the cab. He needed to make one more stop before returning to his men. He hoped the time he'd expend in doing so would provide them all a bit of insurance, should his worst fears be realised...

**_xoxoxox_**

It was another thirty minutes before the Prince returned. Anthony observed him closely; he seemed cooler than he had been when he left, possibly more distant – and his eyes now more calculating. Anthony found himself steeling himself for what was to come.

"I see that neither Mr. Gibbs nor Mr. McGee have returned to us," Battenberg began.

"And there, you see my reasons for wanting to handle this alone," Anthony began, conversationally. "They're like children, really, always running off in all directions at the moment you need them."

Battenberg's silence was as icy a warning glare as Anthony had ever seen from Gibbs, and even Dr. Mallard glanced toward the men in concern at Anthony's flippant tone. The Prince crossed the remaining distance to come close to Anthony, speaking so low the doctor had to strain to follow the conversation. "It will not go well for you, Anthony, should your men fail you. Who and what you are is known to me, as are the roots of your ... _apprenticeship_ ... with Gibbs. He may have his own history, but as some of it in the service Her Majesty it has a better footing than your own. You may now wish that you had ignored his entreaties and fled to New York while you had the chance."

Anthony could feel himself pale at the threat underlying the man's words, but he fought to control his breathing and convince the man his information meant nothing. He put on his best grin. "So you _have_ been in the trenches, I see, to know _that_ particular version of my history – although I would have thought that a man of your rank would not have to consort with the poor wenches down on the docks to satisfy your manly desires. Isn't that why you have so many housemaids about? Or failing that – could you not simply wait for the Heir's next party or theatre outing? Certainly one of those he cast aside would be willing to service a man so close to the Crown, if she could not have the First Born himself."

The slap across his jaw, landing on the side already sore from the evening before, wasn't as laughable as it should have been, but Anthony would not fail to take advantage of it, given that at the moment it occurred, _both_ men instantly knew what it represented – that Anthony had rattled the unflappable Battenberg. "Was that for _their_ honor, Sir? Because, for a man of your military training, with the full power of the Crown at his _backside_," he emphasised scornfully, "to slap me exactly as I was slapped two nights ago by a very charming young lady who took offense at my rather forward suggestion ... well, it's all rather amusing, is it not?"

The Prince's eyes flared their anger, but Anthony sensed it was with himself, for showing his rage, as well as with his investigator. "Say what you will, my friend," Battenberg hissed, back under control once again. "There is far more at stake here than you can imagine, and certainly no amount of investigation will uncover all the ramifications of what may be found here. Step carefully and wisely, for there are far greater things to be protected in this matter than the lives of four inconsequential people." As Anthony's brow drew in anger and he began to protest, Battenberg interrupted, "and, my dear Anthony, this is not a mere threat – it is _information._ It is what it is. And neither you, nor I, nor Gibbs or McGee or the good doctor here mean nearly as much. We may _all_ end up on that ship to New York, or worse, if you depart from what is required of you." The man's anger had not subsided, really, but had shifted into something more dangerous. "Now ... tell me where to find your missing men."

**_...to be continued..._**


	12. Chapter 12

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe courtesy of Sequitur**_.

_A/N: thanks for coming back, and as always a special thanks to you who have commented, alerted or favorited. Hope you're still enjoying this. Once again, sincere appreciation to Sequitur for her generosity in sharing her steampunk universe._

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 11**

It is a truism that, in most cases, officers of the law are a predictable lot; those tasked with enforcing the laws are also prone to follow their own to the letter, observing their own rules and schedules with unwavering regularity. For as much consternation as it gave him, Gibbs was also on occasion grateful that his old acquaintance, Inspector Fornell, did not heed his warnings of the danger in being too predictable, as he banked on just that to find him now.

And find him he did: as was his custom, even on Saturday, Tobias Fornell was at his Club for his midday meal, having been turned out of his home some months before by his shrewish wife, who gave him a beautiful daughter and unending heartburn. It was a matter left unspoken between them thus far, but each man knew the day would come when Fornell would have to concede that Gibbs, once again, was right – he had tried to warn Fornell of his folly in marrying the woman, but love is blind and even the stubborn, testy Inspector had let a pretty face lead his heart far off his usual, sensible course.

Gibbs bade the cab to wait for him and strode up to the entrance of darkest mahogany wood, ignoring the rich grain that usually caught Gibbs' appreciative eye. Time was becoming more and more of the essence, and after this final stop, any of Battenberg's lackeys who might have otherwise been thwarted by another change of cab would be welcome to follow him directly back to their master – after he did what he could to protect his employees and give them a small chance to counter the power Battenberg had behind him in this affair.

Confident he would find his friend at his usual haunt, Gibbs was equally certain he could easily manage an audience with the man, despite his own lack of membership in the premises, and pulled open the door with a authoritative familiarity. This particular men's club, while still one that would not admit just anyone, included those working men like Fornell, of good but not noble family, and was a bit less exacting than the more exclusive ones about barring the riff-raff. More to the point for Gibbs, it was not a difficult matter to get the attention of one inside.

His timing proved to be particularly good this day, as both the doorman and attendant happened to be those who knew him both by reputation and as a frequent caller on the Inspector, and who happened to look the other way as the tall, silver-haired gentleman strode by them with a terse but polite nod. They knew him well enough to recognize when Gibbs was on a mission and when Gibbs was there simply to amuse himself by pestering the Inspector. This day was clearly the former. There was no thought by either man of stopping him as Gibbs strode by.

On this particularly pleasant Saturday, Fornell had come round for his Club's own ploughman's lunch in the well-appointed bar, just enough food to fortify him for the next few hours of reports and other work awaiting his attention. He was finishing off his last bit of cheese and bread, with a swallow of his lager, when a too-familiar figure swept into the dining room.

Fornell groaned to himself. He knew that expression, and it usually preceded a demand for confidential information, or a favour, or both. It had not been a particularly pleasant week to start with, and Gibbs' unannounced appearance seemed to put the capper on it.

As the man pulled out a chair across the table from him and sat without invitation, Fornell simply sighed toward his plate. "And the day had begun as such a pleasant one..." But looking up, he saw a look on Gibb's face that he'd rarely seen – exceedingly grim, as intense as he'd ever seen him – and instantly his attention was professional and on his friend. "What's happened?"

Gibbs opened his mouth to speak and, uncharacteristically, closed it, as if at a loss for how to explain himself. Fornell's brow drew into a deeper frown to see it, and Gibbs changed course to ask, "I have information that I want to leave with you – not only for the sake of the crime that occurred and its victim, but for the safety of my people. But if ever you had to keep its source confidential, Tobias, it is now."

Fornell stared at the man for a moment, then snorted, "theatrics from you now, too, Gibbs, and not only Anthony? Have you been taken over by his..."

"Damn it, Tobias, will you hear the information or not?"

Fornell glared at his friend for a moment before speaking, then tried reason. "This is not the first time you have asked that I keep the identify of my sources confidential where you are concerned, and I am no more able to make that promise now than I have been in the past when you've asked me the same! You know as well as I that in order to actually try these matters to the Court, witnesses are needed, and their testimony is..."

"Tobias, there will be no trial in this, no matter at whose hand this occurred, mark my words." Despite there being few about in the large dining room at this hour, Gibbs' voice was low enough that no one past their table could hear. "If not for me, then for Dr. Mallard and Anthony and Timothy McGee, I need you to know what has happened. And I need to make it very clear to those involved that someone with no small authority for the investigation of crimes in the City –_ you_ – knows enough of the circumstances that both our disappearance and the case we were called to investigate will be of great interest to the Met – and, therefore, great interest to the public at large."

Fornell's eyes narrowed. "Your 'disappearance?' You're in danger?" He saw the uncharacteristic waver in Gibbs' eyes, unusual, but more telling than his words. Unconsciously, he leaned closer to hiss, "what have you stumbled upon, Gibbs?"

"It stumbled upon us – or, rather, upon Anthony."

"What, again?" Fornell barked a relieved laugh, believing that whatever Gibbs' younger assistant could have dragged home was hardly a matter of such grim concern. "His romps through the nightlife of this town will be the end of you, Gibbs; he is less than careful of his acquaintances."

Gibbs snorted at the irony. "Indeed, it started with one of his acquaintances ... although far from what you imply, and not at all due to any lack of judgment on his part." He leaned closer. "Before I say any more, I must have your word that this time, there cannot be even the slightest intimation of your source for what I will tell you – we will be suspected immediately, no matter what is said, as soon as it is spoken, but there may be enough room in the circumstances for others to be suspected as well that we may avoid suffering the consequences – _if_ you are able to keep this to yourself."

"And pray tell what or whom might be named as an acceptable source, if I am pressed?" Fornell's patience was growing thin.

"I don't know!" Gibbs shot back, his own frustration growing with every extra minute that passed, every roadblock thrown up for him getting back to his men. "Say one of your usual informants came up with a collection of gossip items following a gathering in which the deceased was involved. Or say you were visited by the deceased's spirit! It matters little as long as it does not come back to any of us," he growled. "As long as it is some faceless person who might have overheard something he ought not have heard, that is enough. It will be clear why, soon enough."

"The 'deceased?'" Another frown. Gibbs simply glared back.

"Might Anthony's source been a young and comely 'actress' who learned something unsavory about one of her acquaintances, and just happened to pass it along to Anthony at his latest evening out?"

Gibbs' face darkened. "That shouldn't matter, Tobias, and I know you're a better man to let it determine your interest – but no. That isn't the case." He wavered. "Your word?"

Fornell stared back, then finally, grudgingly, nodded. He'd sort it out later but he trusted Gibbs' evaluation of such things as well as he trusted himself. "My word. You and your people won't be mentioned." At that, Gibbs nodded and visibly relaxed – which, even if slight – caused Fornell's worry to spike. Gibbs began to explain.

"A woman was murdered, Tobias, some hours ago. The death is known to one or two people in the household where it occurred, but she and her murder are being hidden from all others, including her husband, whom from all indications was not about at the event bringing her there."

Gibbs watched Fornell's face for his reaction. Tobias Fornell was one of the few people Gibbs was willing to call friend, and he trusted him nearly as well as he trusted his own employees, which was considerable. Yet the stakes in this particular game were so very high, for anyone drawn into the matter. And while willing to trust Gibbs as one of his most prolific and accurate sources of the most extreme information he had ever received in the pursuit of justice in the service of her Majesty and the Metropolitan Police, Fornell was, after all, a police officer sworn to uphold the law, and was not unwilling to prosecute Gibbs and his proxies if the circumstances demanded it. More than anyone else, Gibbs was well aware of how often his efforts could raise just such a demand of his friend.

And this time, it was not only the Met but the Crown's own who could bring pressure to bear, and Gibbs knew that, in this matter, neither Battenberg, nor any others in Marlborough House or in the Palace, or even beyond to the very seats in Parliament, would feel the slightest need to extend them the usual protections afforded even the basest criminal. It was for that reason that Gibbs now sought to make Fornell aware of events: were they to suddenly disappear, or worse, having provided this information to one of the Met's chief inspectors might extend a bit more protection to his people than they had at the moment.

"The household where it occurred is the seat of power and wealth and influence as any you may have investigated – and probably more, I'll wager. That power and wealth and influence is being exerted to force us to investigate, in order to anticipate any efforts you may bring to bear, most probably to thwart them, and to do so without revealing any of it. Is _that_ enough for your protection this time?"

Fornell fumed. "You've been asked to tamper with the evidence?"

"No, to report it – and, we surmise, most probably to evaluate it and allow our client to chart their next actions knowing what you would likely find in your own investigation." At Fornell's glower, Gibbs elaborated, "we have been asked to identify the murderer. Anthony and I each independently suspected, as events unfolded, that it was in order to determine if _you_ will be able to do so, when called in." He considered the man and knew he'd made it personal. "Fornell, I need to get back there, to them. My men are still on the premises and both McGee and I slipped away without their knowledge and most certainly without their leave. Whatever happens now – _can_ you act as you need without identifying our involvement?"

Fornell's eyes nearly bulged. "You tell me all this to stop now, without identifying the victim or your client?

Gibbs shook his head slowly. "I cannot. I needed to tell you this so I have some leverage with those who engaged us, but within the limits of honouring Anthony's contract of confidential service, even if it was one we were not free to refuse. So for now – yes, I tell you this without identifying whom or where. I suspect if and when you are called in you will recognize the circumstances as these."

"And if you ... 'disappear,' as you fear?"

Gibbs mouth tightened, but he said evenly, "McGee was sent to get word to the Lady David, and left long enough before I did that I trust he made his way there unhindered. She will have the particulars and direction to speak with you if you notify her that we have met with foul play – and not before, Tobias, you hear me?" Gibbs wavered, glaring again into his friend's eyes and, Tobias often suspected, even reading his thoughts.

Fornell chewed on the information for a moment, then asked, "is there a chance that this murder, no matter your findings, may be hidden from investigation so that the crime will never be solved nor the murderer prosecuted?"

Gibbs answered honestly, "I imagine a chance, Fornell, but not one without consequences. Probably not the hanging the culprit deserves, but consequences of some sort, enough to make life less ... easy. And ..." Gibbs finally conceded, "this was not a faceless whore on the docks, or some poor sod taken down in Petticoat Lane. This death will be a shocking one, both for the identity and relative health and vigour of the victim, even if the location and details of her demise are not made public. I do suspect that within a fortnight of the death being public knowledge, maybe less, there will be no lack of witnesses who saw her not more than a few hours before the deed was done."

Fornell narrowed his eyes and allowed what may have even been rightly called a smile trace his lips. "All this and yet you hold the name and location?"

"The truth is a precious thing, Tobias, and therefore is exacting in detail, as you and I both understand. So will our client. As long as I am able to swear truthfully that I have not revealed who is involved or the place of our investigation, I have honored my duty to my client. I will so swear to him and let him know that you are aware of a risk we have undertaken, that our client has the means and, quite possibly, the motive for silencing us, and that the remainder of my information is poised to be added if we do not assure its holder of our safety within the day."

"And that will be enough to guarantee your safety?"

Gibbs sighed, and shrugged. "It will have to be." He looked back at his friend and asked again, "Tobias – if called to investigate, no matter what calls you there – can you proceed without identifying us as a source?"

Fornell frowned, but eventually nodded. "As far as I can, I will make every effort to do so. But you and I both know that does not always work out."

Gibbs nodded, and stood, managing a rather relieved, "thank you" as he did. "If it helps," he conceded, "even we have not been told of any witnesses nor presented with any facts, other than the presentation of the body, which was moved from the place of the murder. We will make the usual initial assumptions and proceed accordingly, but, even if we were called now to testify, we could only rightly offer the circumstances which led us to the body, and by whom, and Dr. Mallard's deductions as to the cause and time of death."

Fornell smirked, "they let you bring Ducky too?"

Gibbs finally allowed a bit of a smile to show. "We rather insisted." He nodded to his friend and said once more, "thank you, Tobias. I will let you know when we are away from danger."

**...TBC...**

_A/N: Because the 'team' is at present in several places across London, I have tried to include in each chapter at least one scene from each venue, so we have an update for everyone with each installment. Unfortunately, this scene became almost as long as the other chapters, so it's a stand alone for now. Never fear, we'll get back to Anthony and Ducky, and to McGee, Ziva & Abby soon!_


	13. Chapter 13

_**Disclaimer:**__ NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. Victorian universe – and the promise of a visit to a couple of her less savory characters – courtesy of Sequitur._

_**A/N:**__ this chapter picks up where we left the rest of the team at the end of Chapter 11, while Gibbs met with Fornell in chapter 12. Another apology that it has taken so long to update, but real life is relentless! As always, any and all responses appreciated._

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 13**

Ducky thought that the air in the room fairly vibrated as, before him, the two younger men faced each other in an unspoken struggle for control. The Prince, to be sure, had on his side a great deal of power and far more knowledge of the circumstances than did his young friend, but Anthony, always resourceful, was apparently throwing enough verbal jabs and punches that some had landed – and while that might bring them all closer to the truth, it also clearly made their path far more treacherous.

But Anthony simply would not be reined in, and actually laughed at the man. "You're serious!" he chortled to Battenberg. "You have been present the entire time Gibbs and McGee and I were here, in this room together, and you most certainly had an ear toward everything that passed between any of us. If _you_ do not know where they are, how could you imagine that _I_ would know where they went?"

"I did not ask that!" Louis roared, inches from Anthony now. "You are Gibbs' man as much as he or I ever were commanded in the Service of her Majesty, or as either of us ever commanded others. Such men do not so much leave the house without plans and contingencies for any event, and _their_ men are well drilled to know where and how to fall back and regroup for a new charge. Given your line of work, it would be suicide not to do so. And, so ... I ask, _again_," his voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "Where do I find your missing men?"

Anthony met the man's eyes and held them, unwavering and fearless, for long moments – then suddenly, with a wide grin, snorted and turned from him to Ducky with an apparently unconcerned shrug, casting a thumb back toward the Prince. "He thinks I could actually find Gibbs, Ducky, as if I could ever tr..."

"Enough!" the Prince spat. "You'll be held until you tell me..."

"Ah, ha! You see? I _knew_ there were some still sent to the Tower," Anthony crowed.

"Anthony..." Ducky cautioned. The boy was simply goading the man now, possibly to his own detriment.

But the doctor immediately regretted his interference; it allowed the Prince a chance to refocus away from Anthony's mental grip on him, and gave him an extra weapon he actually hadn't thought of yet, thrown as he was by Anthony's unconventional responses. "Well, yes, the Tower," Battenberg's mouth twisted with irony, "or some place equally accommodating where we can have your Dr. Mallard wait until you see reason."

Anthony's grin slowly faded, but rather than look worried or frightened or even chastised, his eyes darkened in anger, and he straightened himself to face the Prince squarely. "Just what do you think you'd accomplish by punishing this man?" Anthony glowered, his own bearing suddenly exuding more threat of genuine danger than any the Prince had offered. "He came along solely to assist with your depraved, unholy investigation, and now you threaten his well-being in an effort to manipulate from me information I have already told you I do not have!"

"I do not believe you."

It was Louis' gain, having rattled his opponent, and his slight smile of smug contempt did not go unnoticed by Anthony. Tamping down his anger to prevent it from leading his actions again, the younger man gritted his teeth, forced himself to breathe evenly, and focused. Coming back to himself, he lifted his chin slightly to say, "it matters not at all if you believe me or not. In the most direct of terms as I know how to say, your _Highness_ – I do not know where to find either Gibbs or McGee at this hour. Unless they are out in your hedges, still allowing McGee to empty his stomach – and I strongly doubt that is the case by now – then they are, in all likelihood, following up whatever ideas they may have to determine exactly how Lady Margaret met her end." The rage building on the Prince's face at his words seemed to surprise Anthony. His frown seemed a genuine one as he added, "but ... surely ... you realised..."

"You were sworn to utmost secrecy," the Prince raged, "and Gibbs himself agreed that _no_ one else would be brought into this investigation without my approval!"

"Indeed – but you directed us to discover what could be learned of her death by any of those who might be given the task of investigating it. Surely you did not expect us to learn that without using all paths to the truth at our disposal?" Anthony seemed truly puzzled now. "Why else would you seek _us_ out, and not someone else? And why not the Metropolitan?"

Battenberg's expression stiffened, unreadable. "The matter required the highest discretion..." he began.

"And I don't believe _you!"_ Anthony's indignation began to take hold as he saw that he was faced with yet another turn in the game. "Just what the bloody hell did you _think_ would happen, when you insisted that both Gibbs and I come at your summons?"

At the tone of his young companion, Ducky arose to stand at the ready. For what, he could not quite say, but his concern for the younger man was drawn clearly on his brow.

"Did you think we could not, all of us, see your purpose, and what you asked of us?" Anthony was railing now. "You would have us believe that, once you cut off all obvious avenues of investigation to us, you honestly did not intend us to pick up the inquiry along less direct lines?" As the Prince opened his mouth to offer a sharp denial, Anthony stepped in close, his nose almost to Battenberg's, as he hissed in his anger, "and I _defy_ you to even _dare_ to suggest that you did not foresee exactly _this_ happening..."

"Anthony!" The doctor's voice was not loud, but it cracked a sharp warning against the men's ears.

"He knew bloody well what sort of work we do, Ducky, and he's no fool. Word is that if some tricky business is needed, some quiet settling of a matter, he's your man. And it's the business of such a man to know those upon whom he can call for a bit of the same." Anthony seethed, his eyes still boring into those of the Prince as he spoke to the Scot. "He himself brought Gibbs into this, and did nothing at all to encourage Gibbs and McGee to leave when I asked them to go." Anthony spat, still full of his anger at the Prince's implication. "Foreclosing all reasonable investigation here, you all but directed both Gibbs and McGee to run off to do their own, out _there_, for _you, _doing _your_ bidding, under your terms. And now? You raise your threats against us – for what purpose? Is it to distance yourself from anything they might find? You damn well know that this is _precisely_ what you _expected_ to happen when you involved us!"

Anthony's chest heaved with his anger and indignation at the man's apparent denial of his crass manipulation, and he stared, hard, at his adversary – until he saw it. Dawning on him now, his features underwent another change. "Or..." Anthony's voice fell lower as his eyes widened to look closer at the man. "By my soul, Ducky, he did _not._"

Anthony sounded genuinely astounded now, although the good doctor knew him well enough to question how much of this might be Anthony's own acting skills – and how much, the truth. At the moment, he couldn't quite tell...

"He thought he could control us," Anthony was saying, "that no matter our reputation, _Gibbs'_ reputation, that we'd all fall in line for Crown and Country when so ordered, like good little soldiers..." Anthony continued to consider the Prince, and as his eyes narrowed, Ducky suspected he truly was working much of this out for the first time as he spoke. "And when we did not – and _have_ not – he is suddenly left with a bad situation made worse, and his 'controlled' disaster is unraveling all over the City. That's why he now believes he's as much a target of his threats as we are..."

"Tread carefully, _m'Lord_," the Prince warned.

"...because his promise to keep this problem ... _contained _... has been so quickly broken. But ... a promise to _whom?_" Anthony's speculation did not waiver; the younger man was merciless as he slowly, craftily, found his way further along into the mystery, not only gathering more of the loose threads of events, but banking moment after moment of additional time for the others. "That's _it_, Dr. Mallard! Our good Prince Battenberg has made a promise he could not keep. As well we know, Doctor, Prince Louis has only a few people to whom he must answer, at the ... elbow? ... of the Heir and so close to the seat of power. So we must ask ourselves..."

At that, Anthony stopped and his roguish demeanor shifted for the briefest moment as his eyes flashed with sudden insight, a new question driving him to search the Prince's face anew. And to Mallard's astonishment, whatever Anthony's epiphany was, it was enough to rattle the Prince once more, and a look of akin to fear – _foreboding, perhaps?_ – crossed his aristocratic features. Anthony's eyes narrowed at his reaction, and he weighed his thoughts as he picked up his earlier monologue, speaking even more slowly now, still ostensibly to his friend, but his voice low and cautious now as he felt his way along his speculation.

"...we must ask, Ducky – to _whom_ was this promise made? Just who in this household knows of Lady Margaret's untimely demise ... and whose hand is directing the good Prince's actions?"

_xoxoxox_

Upon leaving Fornell, Gibbs made all haste back toward Marlborough House. Under normal circumstances he might congratulate himself for going so far across town and back in the short two hours it had taken him, and speaking to several along the way besides, had it not been that two of his men – and damn near only friends – were left behind to explain McGee's and his absence. The whole affair had left Gibbs with a pronounced feeling of dread; clearly Anthony had it settle upon him as well. Gibbs had served the Queen in his youth and, more than many in this modern age, still felt a strong sense of duty and fealty to the Queen and all in her line. So the fact that the victim was the Heir's guest, and found in his home, for which they had been summoned, only to find that any real investigation had been prevented ... well, it made the damned engagement, and Lady Danforth's murder, even more dark and ominous with the spectre of this Battenberg haunting their every step.

Still, Gibbs had been spoiling to find _some_one who would talk, who would tell him something about the evening and those in attendance, and his failure to do so grated. He hoped that the Lady might ferret out a few more facts, maybe find a few on the guest list who would tell the wily Lady of their night at Marlborough House, but this too left him unsatisfied. He knew both from Fornell and from his own attempts that those befriended by – and those employed by – the Crown were a notoriously tight-lipped lot. Servants were questioned most thoroughly before hire, trained and watched and threatened once inside, even those in the meanest of positions. And other than his newspaper contacts who had offered nothing, or the guests or serving staff Ziva might pursue, Gibbs could think of no other sources of information to exploit. And that set his unsettled gut up for another round of disquiet.

As he rounded his last corner, Marlborough House loomed ahead, and he slowed his pace, shifting his way to a less visible path. He saw nothing amiss outwardly, no sign that additional guards were in place, either to haul him back in or to bar his entrance. He scanned the crowd for signs of more canny, concealed men he knew the Queen to have in her service, but saw no one who fit that description either.

Just to be sure, Gibbs decided to swing wide around the stables and view the place from all sides. Maybe overly cautious, and worse, maybe wasting time that Anthony and Ducky did not have, but he felt himself drawn to make the circuit of the place...

... and was rewarded by the sight of someone who just might help...

_xoxoxox_

With Miss Abigail's wide-eyed question about the investigation, Timothy felt his part of the assignment spiraling out of hand. Lady Ziva was clearly a master at such things; from what he'd seen previously, and what he'd seen just moments before, both outside and now in her pantry, arming herself as if she were a one-woman army, Tim was not at all ashamed to discharge Gibbs' directives and pass his burden to Lady Ziva's apparently expert hands and await her orders.

However, he had not counted on the innocent Miss Abigail to be caught up in all this, and McGee feared not only for her safety, but for his own, given the likely wrath of three dangerous men should it be known. For although Ducky was her guardian, both Anthony and Gibbs – oh, _especially_ Gibbs – doted on their 'Abby,' and all three were as fiercely protective of her as if she were their own flesh and blood. And the thought that she too was now getting involved in this hugely secret affair – which was growing more public by the moment, it seemed – had him more fearful of their ill will than anything that Battenberg might conceive for him.

Before McGee could answer Abigail with the details of the murder, Ziva had shooed them out of the kitchen and toward her parlor with their tea as she completed arming herself – probably for some privacy to conceal her more ... _personal_ ... weapons – so they could have a civil discussion about the matter and what lay ahead. She joined them a few moments later, as Abigail spread the service on the low table before them.

As Ziva poured and Miss Abigail passed the biscuits, McGee found that, primary duty accomplished, his mind went skittering back along all he had seen and done that day, and it left him unsettled. He had never seen such a sober expression on Gibbs' face, and most certainly had not seen Anthony so grave or intensely focused. In the months he had been with Gibbs and the others, McGee had gotten used their manner of investigation, differing somewhat depending on the assignment but overall falling into a predictable pattern of sorts, no matter their task, no matter how grim or unusual: Anthony would be only _just_ as respectful as circumstances demanded, but also as playful and imperious as he could manage, the latter Timothy began to believe done for his own amusement. Gibbs was taciturn and direct, the more heinous the matter the more intense and the less willing to give Anthony room for his antics.

But this matter had been different from the start. Both Anthony and Gibbs had a sense of foreboding that was clearly well-founded, even before leaving home; Anthony was grim and his anger smouldering, while Gibbs was more silent and focused than McGee had ever seen him. What had happened at Marlborough House, what they learned and were told, simply added to the disquiet, but they'd _known_. Somehow, just by virtue of the summons by Prince Albert to Anthony, both Tony and Gibbs knew something was amiss...

"...McGee!"

Tim broke from his musing to look up and see two shining faces peering expectantly at him. "Are you quite alright, McGee?" Ziva asked.

"Oh .. y..yes, of course; my apologies..." he stammered, caught.

"The victim, McGee?" Abigail demanded again.

With a quick look to him, Ziva stilled his response and turned to the other woman. Putting a hand out to cover her friend's sympathetically, she said, "it was Lady Margaret, Abby. The Lady Margaret Danforth..."

The green eyes welled immediately as a hand flew to her mouth. "Lady Margaret!" she repeated, "but ... if they called for Anthony ... and Gibbs..."

"They must have suspected it was a questionable death at the start, or they would not have called upon them." Ziva kept her voice soft, easing her friend's shock at the information, but turned to McGee. "Yes, McGee?"

He nodded. "Yes," he confirmed, seeing Abby's eyes well again, tears falling this time.

"What happened, Timothy?" Abby sniffed.

He frowned and shook his head. "We do not yet know." Telling the tale of his morning, the ride to Marlborough House and all found and not found inside, his narration of the strange events of the day was hushed and hurried. He told them of Prince Louis of Battenberg and how he seemed almost bound to prevent them from learning anything, how Gibbs pulled him aside and bade him make his getaway. He spoke of Anthony's chilling anger and Battenberg's rigidity, of Ducky's findings and lack of witnesses and evidence at every turn regarding the woman's death...

After several minutes of McGee's observations, the room fell silent. Long moments went by as each of them, locked in his or her own thoughts, made what they could of things, until Abigail looked around at the others. Seeing the frustration on McGee's face and the cool deliberation in Ziva's, she could be still no longer. "Well? Did _he_ do it?" she blurted.

"Miss Abigail..." McGee pleaded. "Please! We _cannot_ let ourselves think that..."

"On the contrary, McGee," Ziva cautioned, quietly, "we cannot let ourselves ignore the most obvious possibilities."

"Everyone knows of his appetites and his activities," Abigail reasoned, "and there was the odd speculation that the Lady Margaret would be his next 'convenient' if she was not already so."

As Ziva merely shrugged and opened her mouth to respond, Timothy gaped toward the angelic face before him and blushed crimson for her. "Miss Abigail!"

"Timothy, it is just us three, not Hyde Park!" she huffed. "What kind of an investigation would this be if someone did not at least raise the question?"

"B... but ... even so." His cheeks blazed red. "I did not realize that you ... you knew about ... well, about..."

"What men and women do?" Lady Ziva raised an eyebrow. "This is the City, McGee. Most women here, once they _are_ women, are as aware as men about some of the more private matters we share." Her lips curled up into a slight smile at the discomfort the young man showed at the thought. "It is a new world, McGee."

"Indeed," he managed, "certainly a new one as compared to the one where I was raised."

"Timothy – our concern is Lady Margaret!" Abigail reminded him. "And whether or not you want to hear it, she was at least close to Prince Albert, and may have been ... intimate. She would hardly be the first, if the ladies who tell tales are to be believed. But certainly nothing untoward was ever said of his treatment of them ... and most assuredly no one has claimed he used his birthright to order someone killed – has one?" she asked.

The thought brought Tim up short, as Ziva's admonition rang in his ears. "Well, no, I don't think so ... but..."

Ziva nodded her grim encouragement. "Yes – so you see, McGee? It is something we cannot take for granite, with men of power; they have connections and means to do what they will, and keep it secret..."

But now McGee was frowning deeply. "Granite?"

"Yes," Ziva began again, "you see it now, do you not, that we cannot..."

"Granted." Abby said softly as she leaned toward Tim, and it was now Ziva's turn to look confused. "Something we cannot take for _granted,_" she explained.

"Oh..." chorused McGee and Ziva.

"...and even if he is our future King," Abigail took up their thinking, "do you not think Gibbs and Anthony have already thought of this?" she demanded. "It must be part of what they want us ... want _Ziva_," she corrected coyly, "to ask about."

"Miss Abby, they may well have thought of it," Timothy reasoned, "but are we to rely on mere gossip to inform an investigation?"

"And where else would you _find_ such information, McGee? Especially if you are not being told anything by your patron, and especially if your patron happens to have wealth and privilege and power allowing him to hide all manner of things, and _most_ especially if your patron comes precisely to the one man in all of London who not only is an investigator but whose own nightly activities have provided him with a front row seat for precisely the goings on between the Heir and Lady Margaret, before she was murdered _in his own home!_" Abigail's eyes were fiery with the implications. "You can be assured that these matters were foremost in Anthony's mind when Battenberg came to call, and once he had a moment to divest himself of all knowledge on the matter to Gibbs, that it was of most significance to him as well."

_Was that it?_ Tim asked himself. _Was that enough to throw both Gibbs and Tony off their usual bearings?_ Given the many, sordid implications – it might indeed.

"It may not be the best source, McGee, or the most palatable," Ziva nodded sagely, "but Abby is right. I have learned since my very first visit here that one of the most reliable sources for the most current information in London is word of mouth. The skill to be learned is where to get your most reliable and most recent information." She drained her teacup, put it down and brushed down her skirts. "We can double our efforts if we split up. I will go to see Commander Pettiford, Lady Townsend, and the Wright-Joneses. All are on the guest list and all in town, so I believe they will have attended. I will then go to see my dressmaker. For an extra order or two she can be very informative," Ziva smiled slyly. "I believe I can be back here by tea time even if all are receiving. Abigail, do you know any of those on the list?"

Abby poured over the presumed guest list, and frowned. "Well, yes, but not so that I could simply go ask them about the evening. The Claridges are old friends of Ducky, but my appearance would be surprising, let alone my appearing simply to ask about their dinner with the Prince and Princess. I have known Lady Elizabeth Trawley for years but a more spiteful, duplicitous she-male you will never find... it's _true_," she insisted when she saw Timothy again blanch a bit at her strong words. "What if I ask the girl at the flower shop and the butcher ... they hear things, from inside. And perhaps the green grocer at the market."

McGee shook his head. "Miss Abigail, Dr. Mallard would not want you involved in all this, nor Gibbs nor Anthony..."

As Abigail drew an indignant breath to speak, Ziva interceded smoothly, "but they _do_ want me to do what I think is best, given the time we have, to get as much information as possible, do you not agree?" At McGee's mere suggestion of a nod, Ziva continued smoothly, "then Abby will go. Her plan is a sound one, and she knows people from whom she can get ... sensitive ... information whom you do not." As he thought to protest again, Ziva lifted a hand to add, _"and_ you will accompany her. It is unseemly for her to travel without an escort, that is true, so you will be at her side. Any observations you can add will be helpful." As he looked unconvinced, Ziva asked, in some exasperation, "well, come on, McGee, have you any sources of your own to see?"

And it dawned on him. "I do," he blinked. "Down at the docks."

He had not been down to the docks or the narrow, filthy streets along the Thames since coming to work for Gibbs, and the thought of returning now left him chilled. It had been grim enough – and occasionally dangerous – when he was a known fixture there, selling his toys and gee-gaws for pennies, and seen by the worst of them to be a bit touched and possibly magical, given the hidden powers of the things he made to scald or pinch or sting its owner.

But he'd been away long enough, and possibly filled out enough and become healthy enough, that at best, he'd be forgotten or viewed with suspicion by those who would have known him months ago. At worst, he'd be beset by the criminals roaming the streets looking for a hapless soul who wandered in unawares. But it was there he'd first heard the name Gibbs and advised that it was he who could help Timothy when none else could; it was likely that, of all of them, even Gibbs or Anthony, he might be the only one who had moved among the dock denizens for a time. And as he'd learned back then, months ago, Smith and Stebbins knew, always, the business of everyone in the city. Even the royals. He sighed.

"They are not the most savory of characters, and I fear may not be the sort often privy to the comings and goings of the quality. But ... there are those who make it their business to know what's afoot in all corners of the City, and they do so for the income it generates. It is in their best interest therefore to sell only that information which is fairly certain – or, at least, sell it with whatever caveat is needed to tell of its reliability, so that their business remains profitable for them and they are not tossed into the River for an error. And – it is one more place where our questions may be asked that none of the rest of you is as likely to find answers as I may be."

At his words, Ziva's expression shifted into one of more cunning, then of appreciation. With a nod, she relented. "I had forgotten about your months there, McGee. You would do well to go there and ask about."

"Then ... Miss Abigail need not be involved," McGee brightened slightly. He might avoid the certain wrath of the other men after all.

"No, we need her as well." Ziva turned her attention back to Abigail, mulling over their options, then settling on her choice. "It is only a kilometer or two from the markets to the riverfront. The two of you will go in Ducky's carriage to the market. Leave the carriage with the farrier, he has a small paddock and often watches the rig and horses for Ducky. Make your way to the nearest of your destinations, Abby. As she begins her shopping, you, Timothy, begin looking about in your own little way, as a bored husband might, looking at this and that, and the two of you mindlessly wander further and further apart. As soon as Abigail finishes with her first stop and makes her way to the second, you, McGee, assuming no eyes are on you, can find your way to the docks. As each of you finish, return to the farrier; Abby, use your own judgment as to time and events about returning here with the carriage. Timothy, if you find the carriage gone you can assume Abby has returned here. If not, you wait for her." She paused. "Do you each have enough money?"

Abigail nodded, but Timothy frowned. "I have some, but..."

Ziva rose immediately to disappear down the hall, returning only a few moments later. "Of all of us, McGee, you are the one likely to need money for your information." She handed him a soft leather envelope that bulged slightly. "I would recommend dividing that among your pockets and other places where you might keep your funds, so it is not all in one spot. If they see how much you have they will want it all, without negotiation."

Timothy nodded and reached in to pull out coins and paper money, stopping when he saw just how much. "Lady Ziva! There must be one hundred and fifty pounds here!"

"And I do not mean for you to spend it all, McGee," she cautioned with a smirk. "I just do not want you needing it for information, or even for a cab back here, and find you are short. Use it wisely."

He nodded. "I shall."

**_...to be continued..._**


	14. Chapter 14

_**Disclaimer: NCIS characters and situations borrowed; varying license taken with historical persons. The brilliant Victorian universe of NCIS – and the original characters, Smith and Stebbins – courtesy of Sequitur**_.

_**A/N:** if anyone wants to yell about how long this update took, feel free, and please accept my apologies. I had no intention of taking so long to update, and have only my RL schedule as explanation. For those of you who have asked about it, my sincerest thanks; for those who have kept up with this for a while, I do know that long delays upset a faction of the NCIS readership, and I appreciate your coming back anyway. I hope the fact that this chapter is quite a bit longer than the others both makes up a bit for the delay and explains it in part._

_**A SPECIAL THANKS to Fingersnaps**, who lent her geographically closer 'ear' to one of the characters here, to help him sound as if he'd truly had been born within the sound of Bow Bells and not on the soundstage of a bad Hollywood movie. Any remaining clinkers were my additions or changes done after her review, and certainly not her doing._

_And I still appreciate any and all comments - hope the updates from now on won't be so long..._

**A PERSON OF SOME CONSEQUENCE**

**Chapter 14**

Timothy made his way slowly along the market stalls, forcing himself linger here and there, stopping to count to himself as Anthony had suggested. It was one of the many little tricks Anthony had taught him, this one to pace himself, to avoid rushing off from bin to bin, the better to look as if he were simply idling away the time as his young lady did her shopping. Amid his efforts to keep an eye on those around him without seeming_ too_ vigilant, he allowed himself a moment's reflection of the day's events, and decided that, were he to try and explain the day to his family, settled as they were into the uneventful rural life in which he'd spent his youth, they would think he had wholly lost his senses.

Not an hour out of bed that morning, he'd been whisked off to Marlborough House to find a noblewoman spread out dead as a doornail across the floor of Prince of Wales' family rooms, sent to fetch Dr. Mallard, dispatched again to enlist the Lady Ziva in their secret investigation, and now tasked to a fact-finding mission of his own, back to a part of the City he'd hoped he'd never see again, all in a deepening intrigue of murder amid the Royals. It was so very far from what he thought his life might be when he'd first set off to London to make his fortune, but, at the moment, were he to be honest with himself – even in circumstances as dire as they were – he could not say that he would trade events for a life he once thought more fitting.

And now, as he allowed an increasing distance to grow between himself and the gaily chattering Miss Abigail, who was at the moment throwing herself into her own role in the investigation Ziva had conceived for them, McGee began to suspect that, instead of feeling dismay that the innocent young woman had been co-opted into the sordid mess, he ought to be curious why, as between the two of them, Miss Abigail seemed the better able to assume the façade required by the moment.

Indeed, on the ride over to the Market, Timothy had been distracted, worrying alternately about others he'd left behind at Marlborough House, about the cruelty of the murder they were investigating, and above all, about the prospect of his returning to the seedy, grimy docks and the dangers awaiting him there. But Miss Abby had been in her element: filled with purpose and excited at the prospect of gathering information, she danced like a thoroughbred at the gate, filled with anticipation for the race ahead. He'd have been more curious – and, quite likely, more enamored – with her response had he not concerns of his own, commanding attention.

Shaking off all reflection, Timothy knew it was time that he make his way to the river, and that he dare not venture into such a part of town without his wits about him and his focus outward, not idling within. With a step, and another, and another, he allowed himself to be pulled toward the stalls leading away from Miss Abby, taking less and less time with each feigned stop. In only another few minutes of his "shopping," McGee reached the edge of the market and the alley behind them where the empty wagons and push-carts awaited the end of the day. As unobtrusively as he knew how, he glanced along the alley. Seeing no one, made his way out of the stalls and on toward the docks.

* * *

><p>The stable and carriage house behind Marlborough House was, as expected, a grand affair, as large as many of the finer homes in London and, Gibbs expected, allowing the horses who lived there a better and healthier life than that had by many of the city's inhabitants. The buildings were situated at ninety degrees to each other, which provided a generous work yard, exercise yard and paddock beyond.<p>

The buildings sheltered the outdoor work areas from the view of the main house, so the hands could wash down the carriages and polish the tack out of doors, as weather permitted, without their dirty work disturbing the Family, and on this rare sunny day, a stablehand, not much more than a dozen years old, was hard at work burnishing the leather fittings on a harness. Three more awaited at his feet. Other than the soft scupping sound of his work, it was quiet; birdcalls and occasional whinnies of the horses nearby were the only other sounds of life. Gibbs took the boy's presence in such an environment as a gift from Providence, and did not hesitate to take advantage of it as far as possible.

Coming as close to the clearing as he could without first stepping into open view, Gibbs looked about for a few small pebbles and, grabbing a few, lobbed one then another toward the lad, as near as he could without striking him.

The boy looked up in surprise and scanned the area for others. Just as he was about to look back to his work, Gibbs stepped sideways, partly revealing himself in the bushes, and put a quick finger to his lips, shaking his head to encourage his silence. The boy went still, gulping in alarm, but did not run. Trying to appear as nonthreatening as possible, Gibbs held his empty hands out in a shrug, then beckoned him over.

At first, the lad remained unmoving, except for a tiny shake of his head. Gibbs gestured, but couldn't think of how to express in gesture that he only wanted to ask a question or two. The next moment, and refraining from smacking himself in the head for not thinking of it sooner, he dug around in his pocket to pull out a few coins and hold them out. That got the boy's attention and a furtive look around, but again, no movement. Finally, Gibbs rattled the coins softly and reached as far as he could to lay the coins in the dirt before him at the edge of the clearing, gesturing as best he could figure for the boy that the coins were for him. Backing off a step then to seem less intimidating, took off his hat and coat and Gibbs sat in the bush at its edge, gestured one more time, then rested his hands palm up against his protesting knees. He'd run out of ideas and hoped this would work.

After another few moments, and another glance around, the lad quietly put down the harness he held and came close. When he was near enough to reach for the coins, Gibbs said quietly, "good lad. The coins are yours, for being brave enough to come talk with me. I wish only to ask about the party here last night. Will you talk with me?"

The boy's movement had frozen at Gibbs' words, but as he finished, he shook his head mightily. "Ain't allowed, sir. 'The Royals' business is the Royals' business,'" he recited. "They'd 'ave me 'ide if they knew."

Gibbs nodded quickly, "I understand," he said sympathetically. "And if you weren't even here last night..."

"But I _was_, sir! Not the biggest party ever they 'ad, but enough carriages an' 'orses they needed all of us boys 'ere."

"I see." Gibbs nodding slowly, moderating his voice and movement as he might for a spooked horse, and working not to let his growing hopes show. "How many horses, you figure?" At the boy's reticence, he added, "that's not really the Royal's business at all if you just tell me about your work last night."

To his surprise, the boy blushed deeply and looked away, his hand pulling back from the coins in a sad sort of sigh. "Don't rightly know anyways, sir; more'n the numbers I 'ave to count." He mumbled, "I never was no good at numbers, sir, and me dad said schoolin' was a waste of time when I should be out earnin' me own keep."

Gibbs nodded his encouragement, and tipped his chin toward the coins. "Go on – I meant it when I said the coins are yours, for talking with me. I'd rather have your honest answers than some tall tale." He saw the boy blink, his surprise becoming appreciative, and Gibbs urged, smiling softly, "Take them. I'm not all that good at numbers myself." He watched as the youngster pounced on the glittering metal and continued gently, "boy, d'you know the horses and carriages by their owners?"

"I should say so, sir!" He seemed pleased to be able to redeem himself.

"Good lad." Gibbs kept his demeanor steady and tried, "did you see the Danforths' carriage last night?"

The boy's eyes flickered at the mention of the Danforths' name, but after only a moment, he asked, "'ers were never 'ere last night, sir – Peters was sent to collect 'er. 'Is carriage warn't 'ere 'til long past dinner, after some of 'em 'ad already left."

Gibbs started, slightly, and asked, looking hard at the boy, "you saw _Lord_ Danforth's carriage here last night – but the Lady came earlier with one of the Prince's drivers, here?"

"Yes, sir." The lad nodded, clearly certain of his information, but seeming a bit wary – maybe only because they'd moved back to people from horses, but Gibbs noted it nonetheless. "Peters got back before they was servin' dinner up at the 'ouse – I know, because..." He suddenly paused, as if realizing he was about to spill more secrets than he had right to do. "I ... I ..."

Gibbs did his best to soothe. "It's alright, lad – whatever you have to say, it's safe with me."

The boy gave him another look, but seemed to trust the man who seemed more kind and encouraging than most he'd met in his young life. "Well ..." he began again, slowly, "I know 'e'd done, because I was up at the kitchen to collect the supper Cook 'ad ready for the stable'ands..." Again he stopped short suddenly, and looked more fearful than he had a moment before as he added, "please don't punish 'er for it, sir, she was just bein' kind because there was more food than what the party needed," he begged.

Gibbs was aware that more time was passing than he wanted, with Ducky and Anthony at the mercy of Battenberg's certain ire, but he had stumbled upon a wealth of unexpected information and he didn't want to let the opportunity go. "I won't, lad – just like you, I'm trying to do a bit of work for them." He nodded toward the House.

"You a copper?" The boy's eyes suddenly narrowed in distrust, and Gibbs couldn't help but feel a small tug at the quick insight – the sort of life the boy must have away from the stables probably hardened him early to policemen and the sort of men they pursued, right to his doorstep, maybe even inside. He found himself wanting to be as honest with the lad as he could.

"No. Sometimes my work is like theirs, looking into what and who's about, but not for the Met. People hire me to look into things for them." The boy nodded, sensing Gibbs' candor more than the import of the words. Seeing it, Gibbs nudged him gently back to telling what he knew. "What time was it when Peters got back, d'you know? Was it after sundown?"

"Oh, yes, sir." The nod was again certain. "When they 'as their dinner parties, dinner ain't served when normal folks would 'ave it. It's much later, bedtime, like," he offered. "Maybe nine o'clock, by the Great Bell."

"And did you hear the Great Bell strike when Lord Danforth arrived?"

The boy frowned, thinking back, then finally nodded. "It were after midnight, sir, because the Bell was down to one or two strikes again. Two, I think. But that was when they brought the carriage back 'ere, sir. No telling when 'e actually arrived, not if the lads thought 'e might be leavin' again real soon like." Seeing Gibbs didn't quite follow, the boy went on, "the livery 'ands leave a visitor's carriage up at the 'ouse if they ain't stayin' for long. Sometimes they knows 'oo's stayin' right away, but others, they gets told one thing and then another and another..." the boy shook his head at the folly of the wealthy friends of the Prince. "So alls you can know when a carriage gets back 'ere is when it gets _back 'ere."_

This time Gibbs smiled at the boy's insight and what appeared to be his inherent understanding of where observation stopped and assumption took its place. At that, and having sensed Gibbs' growing appreciation of his observations, the lad allowed himself a bit of a smile himself at his successful report.

Gibbs nodded his approval. "Clever boy," he said, watching the smile widen at his words. "Anything else you remember about the Danforths, anything said or any of their comings or goings?"

Again, the boy paused to think, then shook his head. "No, sir," he shrugged. "But ..." he glanced once over toward the stables, and hesitated. Gibbs gave him another look, urging him on, and he simply shifted a bit uncomfortably.

Trusting the boy's instincts more and more, Gibbs urged softly, "there's more?"

Another silence and another squirm, and the boy finally asked, "if ... if you were t'go looking, like, and they catches you at it ... you won't say it was me what told you?"

"No, lad. I promise you that."

The boy frowned, staring at the ground for another moment, then looked back up to Gibbs. With a shrug, he said "don't know anythin' about Lord or Lady Danforth, sir – but 'is carriage is still in there." At Gibbs' surprise, he added, "just like before – it don't tell me where Lord Danforth is – but he ain't been in his carriage since it was brought 'round 'ere last night. An'..."

Gibbs held his breath, mentally urging the boy to keep going. He had a sense there was much more to be found from this young source, and a good bit of it 'the Royals' business.'

"...well, some of 'em from the 'ouse, sir ..." Gibbs' gut bellowed that one of "'em" was Battenberg. "They was 'ere last night, a couple a' toffs, talkin' real quiet like, about ... about 'is carriage, and ..." The boy frowned and grew still, clearly torn. Looking away for the moment, he seemed to come to a decision, and looked Gibbs square in the eye. "They was on about 'avin' Mr. Thomas clean up the carriage real good like. But Mr. Thomas don't ever do any of the cleanin' or the tack work hisself – 'e's the Stable Master, sir; 'as been, since before I were born, from what they say. 'E has us lads do the work, and for them to tell Mr. Thomas 'e needed to take care of things 'isself, it just warn't natural."

Gibbs nodded his understanding and, tamping down his concerns about just what sort of cleaning had been requested, murmured, "very good, lad. Did you know the toffs, who they were?"

The boy hesitated, but then shook his head. "Don't think so, sir."

"Very well." Gibbs stewed a bit with the information and a sense that the boy suspected who it might be, but for the moment he did not wish to press the child so far that he would no longer respond. In some concern for the boy, he added, "you know that they did not intend for you to hear them, don't you?" At the serious nod in reply, Gibbs went on, "It will be better for you to be careful about who hears this – but I think you know that, too."

"Yes, sir," the lad agreed, seemingly relived to share his burden.

"Good boy," Gibbs repeated automatically, his mind rushing ahead. _'In for a penny, in for a pound,'_ he swear he could hear as he told himself he'd not likely have the chance again. Swallowing his worry for the ever-growing delay in his return, he asked quietly, "No one else is about?"

"No, sir." He wavered, and asked again, more softly, as if he knew what was coming. "Sir ... you won't tell them, you swear?"

"No, lad, you have my word." Knowing his "word" meant little to one who had no reason to trust him or to know his reputation, especially a child in his circumstances, Gibbs offered a rueful smirk. "Those who know me would tell you that I am well known for getting into all manner of trouble and secret places without anyone's help. Were I to be caught, it may not even occur to them that anyone was needed to guide the way."

His words struck a chord with the boy, even let him relax a little. With a nod, he said softly, "yes, sir."

Gibbs inclined his head in response, then dared one more imposition on the boy's trust. "So, lad – can you describe Lord Danforth's carriage? I should like to go take a look for myself." As the boy's eyes widened slightly, Gibbs added, "only a look," he promised, hoping with his words that there would be nothing more to be done _but_ look. At the uncertainly on the boy's face, he added, "I would have you remain outside, tending to your work. No one will find me, I promise you that. Even if they did – I will swear to all who hear me I stole in without your knowledge, with no one's help. You can just tell me which is his, and I shall be in and gone all the faster with your help."

Long moments passed as the boy weighed his moments with this man, his kindness, his willingness to look him in the eye and to treat him like a man. Finally, straightening slightly with resolve, he nodded. "Faster for me to show you, sir." And with a final, keen glance around the yard, the boy turned toward the carriage house, trusting that his new acquaintance would follow.

* * *

><p>McGee had always been rather an oddity on the docks, and all the while he'd been there he was well aware of that fact. On first arrival, he'd been spotted as the country boy he'd been, there to make his fortune and likely a penniless hayseed, not worth the effort to rob. Later on, when he was known as the man with the clattering trinkets and little else, they'd looked at him as if he was a bit touched, but he was left alone for the most part; whether they did so from their fear of his inventions, or their sure knowledge by then that he hadn't a penny to his name, McGee had never been quite sure.<p>

However, if it had been thought that he had anything worth stealing, neither the most nightmarish invention he could ever conceive, nor the most alarming madness he might display, would have been enough to hold off the boldest thieves among them. Returning now after so many months away, no doubt he'd be gawked at once again, and this time he'd look to the locals an easy mark, his better health and meatier bones the best indication that he was likely to have money for the taking.

'_Better health,' indeed_, he thought, giving himself a mental cuff to the head Gibbs could have envied. Just that was bad enough. But as he walked the damp, close alleyways between pubs and shops – clad as he was in the coat and cravat Anthony deemed suitable for calling upon Royalty – he never been so _wrongly_ turned out for _this _place as he'd been rightly suited for earlier in his day.

A worm on the end of a hook, tossed in the rivers of his youth, could not make a better or more captive lure for these streets than he was at the moment, clothing loudly proclaiming his new-found 'wealth' and an apparent ignorance of what could befall such a man in this place. The resulting likelihood of an assault, and his consternation that events had them all in such a rush that neither he nor the ladies had thought through to such a glaring detail, made him hurry through the streets faster than ever, head down, toward his goal, the Green Parrot, never more grateful for his tutors' patient training and Gibbs' Ninth Rule but profound in his hopes that neither would be needed.

Either way, if his luck would only hold, he might make it to the public house intact, and find the ever-vigilant Smith and Stebbins. If anyone knew of the comings and goings of those who wished to keep such comings and goings private, they were the men for it. For the information he needed, he knew he would need to pay, and dearly, particularly as they would take full credit for his current lot in life, having put him upon Gibbs in the first place. Still and all, Timothy was glad he'd decided not to take more than eighty five quid of Ziva's money; it was still a king's ransom, but only half of what she'd offered. Knowing the pair as he did, Timothy knew that Smith and Stebbins would seek to have him empty his pockets to for their information. The less he carried, the less he'd be made to pay, should they force proof of what he had with him.

McGee nearly danced in relief as he rounded the final corner to spy the familiar green and red sign of the Green Parrot, his arrival aided by the earlier hour and the sunny day, neither condition a favorite among thieves. Fairly diving through the door, he blinked toward the bar as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting – and the close, musty smell, only adding to the dockside stench – he was disheartened to see that, where there were normally the two familiar silhouettes at the bar, only one man stood. With his eyes still dimmed by the sunlight, Timothy was uncertain if it were either of the men he sought. It had never occurred to him they would not be there, as before they seemed to be in the same spot all day, each day, all hours. He stood unmoving for the moment, wondering how long he should wait for them to arrive, when the lone man turned and, in a moment, called out in a familiar, gravelly voice, "well, well, well – look what the cat dragged in. Our young inventor has found his way back to us. Were you kicked out then, Mr. McGee, or did _he_ send you back to collect information for one of his ... investigations?"

With a bit of relief, McGee approached Stebbins and noted how the man gave him a look up and down, assessing his state.

"And doesn't the darker side of life agree with you, Mr. McGee?" the man chortled, winking. "You've certainly come 'round a bit."

"Gibbs doesn't live a dark life," Timothy protested sharply, despite his mission there. "On the contrary! He's a fine man; one of the best of ever I've..."

"I meant nothing by it lad," Stebbins interrupted, still grinning, and adding, "but now I can finally ask one what knows him – the mad Mr. Anthony ... _is_ it indeed madness, that drives him? Or a madness of the soul..?"

McGee had his wits about him enough to see the sharp look in the man's eye, and suddenly knew that, all this time, he had underestimated Stebbins and, most likely, his companion. Timothy well knew that the men's sole livelihood was the peddling of information, and to live upon such a ephemeral commodity, they must be adept in its handling. With a deep breath to ground him, and knowing he needed to show his own agility to succeed with his mission, McGee allowed Stebbins a knowing look. He trusted Anthony wouldn't mind.

"Madness? I am hardly a doctor, Mr. Stebbins, as well you know. However..." He drew out the sound, adding a count or two in Anthony's honour. "He is ..." Timothy shrugged, "unique. More like trouble, as you told me some months ago; dangerous, as you implied. But ..." Timothy drew himself up to his full height, and added from somewhere beyond his thinking, in the moment, "I believe I may now also call him friend, and ..." McGee stopped short. Co-worker? In a manner of speaking, but not the manner of their work. "...my employer's employee. For whom I am here, on some business. I had hope of speaking with you and Mr. Smith; if he is not about..."

"He has been abed for a fortnight, but is on the mend, as it were. Were a great fear he had the 'pox, but all in all it appears he has either come 'round on his own, or had merely a random ill." Even if Timothy had not known before, he would have known by his response that Stebbins had long plied his trade, refusing as he did to hop like a hungry bird at the simple mention of business. "All's to say he's as tough an old badger as any and is on the mend. But..." Stebbins gave McGee a one-eyed squint, as if he had only now registered his finery, "unless you'd heard wrong and come to bury your old friend Smith, I'll vow you're not here to waste my time and yours, discussing Smith's health."

He caught the eye of the bartender and pointed to McGee, who reddened slightly at realizing he had not made this simplest of gestures made in such matters of business, and had left Stebbins without his usual brandy. With seasoned patience and a smirk of continued amusement, Stebbins watched as the publican poured his brandy and placed it before him. Raising his glass, Stebbins took a long, languid sip of the drink before looking back to McGee and finally got down to business.

"So, Mr. McGee – whatever brings Gibbs' newest terrier back to his old haunts?"

* * *

><p>Although the location was far from perfect, it was certainly not the worst of circumstances for Dr. Mallard to conduct his examination of a body, and he could busy himself for hours with this investigation, should he find himself with that much time on his hands. But despite his many years experience in even more dangerous situations, and despite his well-known ability to conduct a most accurate exam despite decaying conditions, interruptions and even his own rambling yarns to compete, Ducky found his thoughts less on the Lady Margaret and more on the implications of Battenberg's latest visit with them.<p>

Clearly Anthony was, as well. Wholly unlike himself, Anthony had gone off to stand alone against the far wall, brooding, after Battenberg had stormed off again nearly an hour before. The doctor's initial attempts to question his young colleague about it all had gone nowhere; Anthony had begged off tersely, though as politely as he could, the storm clouds of anger and frustration clear in his bearing. So when the man returned to his side, still far quieter than was his usual demeanor, it did not surprise Dr. Mallard, when he looked up, to see an Anthony not all that much less disturbed than he'd been an hour before.

"Dr. Mallard," Anthony began, formally, "I have not had an opportunity to apologize for your unwilling participation in these matters. I am sorry that Battenberg's familiarity with my employment has led us all to this. If I'd given the matter more thought before agreeing to Gibbs' participation, it might only be me in this mix, and not you and Gibbs and McGee as well."

"Nonsense, Anthony," Mallard chided gently. "You have no reason to apologize, and I no reason to accept it. It is in the nature of things in this business to run into matters of such complication, although I daresay I wonder at Lord Battenberg's latest departure. I suppose he is not too worried about us to leave us alone like this, eh?"

"On the contrary, Ducky, I think he's much more worried than he ever anticipated with his decision to bring us in – and clearly it was _his_ decision, and most likely an argument he battled to win, given his apparent surprise at the way things have turned out for him. I have to wonder to whom he finds himself scripting his excuses, to have at the ready should they be necessary. "

"So you really believe that he did not at least imagine this as a possibility?"

"I would not have thought it so of him, but from his most recent reaction, I see no other explanation. Maybe he's too long in the service of the Royals, where it's a rare occasion that those around him won't fall into line either out of deference, or fear, or loyalty, or all of it. And I can't shake the notion that he's less worried about the death of the Lady Margaret than he is the truth being revealed, and in turn is less worried about the truth revealed than the hand behind all of it, pulling his puppet-strings. The stationery and the name, seal and signature of the Prince of Wales were all used to bring us here – but we have no sign of him in all this. Was this request what it seemed, or simply a convincing sham by his second?"

Ducky's eyes went wide. "You mean to say that you were summoned by Wales himself?"

"Or by a letter written and signed to make it look as if it were he, yes – although if Battenberg falsified such a missive without the Prince's knowledge, that might be at least part of the reason for Battenberg's ire at things getting out of hand." Anthony mused. "But whatever the reason, within it all, he is protecting himself, and others too, most certainly. And – this is only a hunch, Ducky, but an insistent one this past hour – he is willing to fall on his sword for at least one other in this affair... but for whom? And what in the world is so terrible that, for the mere escape of Gibbs and McGee from this place, Lord Battenberg contemplates being tossed from the House like a serving girl who spilled soup on the mistress?"

Anthony paced again, working on his concerns as he spoke them. "Whatever it may be, he simply did not anticipate Gibbs and McGee wandering off on their own. No matter that they are doing exactly what he asked of them, despite his failure to recognize it as such, and despite their discretion, no matter how well played, Battenberg runs the risk of information getting away from him – and that information, if it is worth his being given the boot by family, must be either dire indeed, or deemed so by one of those who matter. And for our Prince Louis, Ducky, there simply are not that many who 'matter' enough to mean his dismissal from the affairs of the Family."

"And all that clearly has you more worried than you'd been thus far, Anthony," Dr. Mallard observed. "Why?"

"Battenberg is a military man, like Gibbs. When was the last time you saw Gibbs wholly befuddled, Ducky, no fall-back plan and no alternative course?" Anthony nodded as he saw the understanding dawn in the man's eyes. "For the moment, it worries me more than anything because when he reacts as if he has no options left, it means he is unpredictable – because he himself doesn't know what's next – and because it means that things are quite dire indeed, at least from his vantage point. It doesn't necessarily mean it's so for ours, but if it is – he has resources beyond anything we've faced before on Gibbs' engagements." Anthony fell silent for the moment, his handsome face darkening in thought, before he dared, "I have always wanted to think that those in my sovereign's service would not engage in disappearance and other such intrigue to rid themselves of her more troubling subjects, but while I may be overly hopeful with that thought, Ducky, I am not so naive to not be concerned about the power Battenberg can bring to bear against Gibbs, or you, or McGee, for nothing more than proving him wrong about us. Maybe they _do_ still use the Tower, maybe they don't, but by God people do disappear in this life. Who's to say it's not due to the machinations of such men?"

"I am." Battenberg stood in the doorway for another moment, watching as Anthony and the doctor reacted to his sudden arrival, then moved toward them with an amused smirk. "We are a civilized monarchy, Mr. Anthony, in a civilized, modern society. I have no idea why the Tower holds such fascination for you – one of your forefathers met their end there, perhaps? – but I assure you that we've no need of the Tower for anyone these days."

The Prince's manner was again smooth and assured, far more befitting his station than it had been when he left them; to Dr. Mallard's eye, the man was once again in control of himself, relaxed, even. But the good doctor knew the man to be a skilled politician and as familiar with dissembling as ever Gibbs or Anthony might be, and, despite the flitting guilt he had at the thought, Ducky found himself fascinated at the ongoing struggle between the men. It was all so much like an arm wrestling match between closely matched competitors, this battle between Battenberg and his friends. If only the situation wasn't so tragic and their current condition, grim...

As the doctor watched, Gibbs' protégé once again drew on his considerable reserves and straightened to smile charmingly at the Prince, a dangerous glint in his eye, and Ducky realized Anthony took the man's reaction as a success – demonstrating the Prince's capitulation that circumstances were out of his control? Evidencing the Prince's willingness to see Anthony as something of an equal? Something else altogether? He would have to ask Anthony, when the matter was behind them.

But for now, the younger man spoke, his words carrying almost as much charm as his smile. "Your Highness." He then simply waited, never dropping the smile, goading the Prince with his silence this time, certainly also unexpected for anyone who knew the normally garrulous man.

Battenberg even acknowledged the response by continuing. "However ..." he drawled, appearing for the world as if he were enjoying the cat and mouse of things, "as you yourself pointed out, we are not without power, Mr. Anthony – and power brings options. Do you really want to know what can befall your little group if you seek continue to test the limits of your assignment?"

Anthony's nostrils flared at the threat to the others, but he took a moment to gather himself, and when he spoke, his voice was firm and even. "Once again, your Highness, I am familiar with your military record and the unlikelihood that you would enter an engagement without full knowledge of those you take on. I therefore had – and _have_ – no reason to think that you employed us – or _me_, specifically, after all – to do only half the job we would otherwise do. Should that have been your desire, certainly you would have mentioned it. So for your first allegation, I respectfully remind you that it was not the limits of our assignment we tested, but the limits – or transparency – of the available evidence. Of _all_ available evidence." Anthony's gaze never wavered from his adversary, and, assessing the Prince's reaction during his little speech, he could not resist a little flourish. "So, your Highness – anything else troubling you?"

The man's studied calm did not shift much, but Dr. Mallard watched him as closely Anthony did, and both men saw a small twitch at his jaw, a slight hitch in his breathing. The room was silent for several moments before the Prince suddenly smiled malevolently, his anger barely controlled by his knowledge that he held the upper hand. "Bravo, my dear Mr. Anthony. Such brave words from one who avoided deportation once already, and only by the sheerest of luck. Surely you realize how unlikely you would avoid a second such order, you and your friends. But this order may find you on a ship to of our choosing, and not the streets of New York, as you'd arranged before. How do you suppose your kindly, grandfatherly doctor would fare in the colonies, Mr. Anthony, or even on the voyage itself? Or your young friend, whom you would have me believe is still out in the bushes at war with his stomach?" The Prince stepped closer, dropping his voice menacingly. "Do not play games with your friends' lives, Mr. Anthony. Even if you can survive the worst, they may not."

"What would you have me do, your Highness?" Anthony spat in return. "Conjure Gibbs back? For he is only doing that which we would do for any other engagement..."

"And so you have insisted, repeatedly!" the Prince interrupted, anger erupting.

"Then _why_, your Highness..."

All heads snapped back to the doorway to see a now-dusty Gibbs stride into the room and near the man threatening his second.

"...do you not just take the man at his word?"

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><p><em>To be continued...<em>


End file.
